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Chapter Text

The Solitary Hunter Trilogy

Series One: Dépaysement

“the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them” 

Cause And Effect by Charles Bukowski

~*~*~

Chapter One: Twist My Arm Then

“John?”

At the sound of his wife’s voice, Dr. John Watson jumped in his seat and turned around. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly as Mary placed her hand on his shoulder, bending down to give a kiss on his temple “Thought you were sleeping.”

She pulled out the dining room chair right next to him. Sitting down, studying him sitting in front of his laptop computer in nothing but his pajamas bottoms and a rumpled t-shirt, she said “You’ll catch your death of cold, sitting out here in the chill, you know. And I wasn’t asleep. Not really, I was feeling a bit out of sorts, so I was already awake when you got out of bed. Thought you were fed up with my tossing and turning,” she smiled, giving his wrist a squeeze.

Instantly apologetic, John turned away from his laptop and placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry, love. I wasn’t fed up at all. Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“No. Not right now, thanks. Just wanted to see what’s making you burn the midnight oil again. You’re becoming just about as bad as him, you know,” she teased.

 “Now why would you go and say a rotten thing like that?” John teased back, patting her hand. “I don’t wake you up in the middle of the night playing the bloody violin or keep body parts in our refrigerator.”

“Immediate divorce if I ever find eyeballs in my microwave,” Mary said promptly.

“Should have added that bit to our wedding vows,” John said.  

“But,” she said softly, “You’ve not been eating or sleeping properly. Like him.”

John leaned back in his chair. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?” he affectionately smoothed her blonde hair off her forehead. “You’re becoming as observant as him, you know.”

“Well, I can’t help observing when you don’t eat your dinner and don’t sleep in our bed,” she said primly but her eyes were wide with worry. “John, love…”

“I don’t need to go back to the therapist, Mary,” John said firmly. “I don’t. I know you think I do. But I don’t.”

“What you really mean is you don’t want to,” Mary retorted, wrapping her pink dressing gown tighter around her body then crossing her arms.

“Now hang on, I don’t want to have a row,” John said tiredly. Judging how she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, he knew she was perfectly ready to have a row. “I just need… if I could only… see, talking about it isn’t going to do me a bit of good because I can’t get my thoughts organized and I wander off track and forget what I’m trying to say, what I need to get out. If I could just…” Frustrated, he gestured towards the computer. “If I can just write out what I’m feeling and thinking, then I’ll feel better because it will be out instead of in. Writing helped me after the war and after The Fall,” John could hear the words “The Fall” capitalize as he spoke. “The Fall” always meant that horrible day at St. Bart’s…

Isn’t that what people do? Leave a note?

He cleared his throat. “It’s just writer’s block. I can’t think of a proper way to blog about it, that’s all. It’s just such a huge, complicated monster of a story; I don’t know how to condense it.”
 
Mary’s lips had relaxed and her eyes had softened while John spoke. When he had finished, she said “Then don’t. Write about what happened like a story instead of a blog.”

“A story?” John said as Mary rose from the table. “You mean, write a book? Instead of a blog?”

“I always thought you could make a fortune writing proper novels about your adventures with Sherlock Holmes rather than blog about them. You’re a fantastic writer, you know. Shouldn’t confine your gift to a few paragraphs on an online journal,” she pushed her chair in. “I’m going to put the kettle on, don’t get up,” she said sternly as John started to rise. “You’re not going to sleep anyway. We’ll have a cuppa and you can start plugging away.”

“I don’t want you to be fussing over me if you’re not feeling well,” John insisted.

“Oh sit down, I feel better moving about and I feel much better now I know what’s rolling around in that head of yours,” it was her turn to stroke his hair. “I can tell you’ve been running your hands through your hair, you look like a hedgehog with his quills sticking up.”

“You say the most loving things Mary Watson,” John took her hand and kissed her palm. “Really know how to make a man feel special.”

She whispered in his ear “I’ll make you feel extra special later if you write a page worth of words tonight,” but as she walked away, she added cheekily “And if I’m still awake, of course.”

“Oh of course,” he called over his shoulder. He smiled as she disappeared into the kitchen and soon he could hear the rattle of mugs and spoons and kettle. But when Mary came back, he had already written two paragraphs of a novel he would eventually call “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist”…

***

11 March 2015
London, England
Wednesday
12:45 PM

Once the dust settled down from his spectacular rise from the grave, life carried on almost as it had before at 221B Baker Street. Of course, it took a very long time for the dust to settle. One does not take a swan dive off the roof of a prominent London hospital only to reappear two years later without any sort of repercussions.

John still did not regret hitting Sherlock in the face multiple times for that little stunt. Well, didn’t regret it much. Plus it amused him how Sherlock stayed a good arm’s length distance away from him for a while. Until he deduced John was finished being angry with him for faking his death, of course.

Admittedly pulling him out of that ruddy bonfire helped soften John’s attitude towards Sherlock.

Even though John finally (mostly) forgave Sherlock for the hell he put him, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly for The Fall, things of course, could not stay the same. And they most certainly could not stay the same after the wretched Charles Augustus Magnussen case. He was trying to be a proper husband to Mary again after their estrangement last year. He was also a practicing physician again. He couldn’t go dashing off on some adventure whenever Sherlock beckoned and called.

Or so he tried to explain to Sherlock over and over again with zero to little effect. For example, on a damp, miserable day like today, when surgery was jam-packed with sick babies and coughing children with their worried mothers in tow, he received and ignored at least ten irritating texts from Sherlock sent within a thirty minute time period. While he was trying to gulp down a cup of tea and eat a bit of a lunch before his next appointment, he received yet another irritating text; only this one was from Lestrade:

“Was told to text you since you’ve been ignoring him. At crime scene. Lazarus needs his blogger – GL.”

Then another irritating text swiftly followed:

“Hurry. Before we test our theory whether or not he can rise from the dead a second time. – GL.”

“Oh for the love of God,” John rubbed his eyes and looked at his diary. Filled to the last minute with appointments. Not to mention all the walk-ins. This flu-and-cold season was more vicious this spring than it had been last winter.

His mobile chirped again. “Donovan is loading her gun. – GL.”

John uttered a string of foul curse words he hadn’t used since his military days then he picked up the telephone on his desk to ring the office manager “Anna? I’m so sorry, but I’ve got an emergency. I need to have my afternoon appointments rescheduled.”

Knowing full well Anna would be plotting his eminent demise (again) for leaving early (again) on account of Great Consulting Detective (again); John put on his coat and the warm blue scarf Mrs. Hudson gave him last Christmas. Then he texted Lestrade for directions to the crime scene before pulling his gloves on. A twinkle of curiosity flickered through his guilty conscience for abandoning the other doctors and nurses on duty. What could possibly be so earth-shattering that Sherlock forced Lestrade to contact him after he ignored all of Sherlock’s other texts? Normally Sherlock gave up after John ignored at least thirty of his texts.

John soon saw well enough why Sherlock had summoned him once he arrived at the crime scene, a very run-down part of London with a less than savory reputation. But this particular grimy side-street was packed with fire trucks and ambulances. John knew Sherlock hadn’t texted because he needed another pair of eyes. What was needed was another pair of hands. Doctor’s hands. Even two blocks away, John could see walking wounded weaving in and out on the streets and pavements as well as cops and medics trying to restore order or rather contain the chaos.

Moriarty… the name skittered across his mind like a spider before he could stop himself.

“Did you hear about this on the news?” John asked. “I’ve been in surgery all day.”

 “Not a pip,” the cabbie said, a very confused young man with a thick Scottish burr. “Either someone’s trying to hush this up or it just happened.”

“Don’t think they can hush this up,” John said, instantly angry at Lestrade’s cavalier attitude towards this destruction. Sherlock, well, he had come to expect to be insensitive. Lestrade’s sarcastic texts, on the other hand, grated on his nerves more than ever.

 “Don’t think I canna get closer to the address you need to go,” the cabbie said.

“I don’t think that address exists anymore anyway,” John dug into his pocket for his wallet. Pulling out notes, he said “I’ll get out here, thanks.”

Once out of the cab, John made a beeline for the first ambulance he saw and got a medic’s kit and gloves. Chaos reigned as sirens wailed, police shouted and victims staggered in the streets. He tried to assess and treat as many as he could on his way to the building he assumed was bombed (why else would Sherlock Holmes, The World’s Only Consulting Detective get involved if it wasn’t a bombing?) but most people were more interested in getting out of the area rather than seeking medical treatment. For the first time all day, John was grateful it was damp and drizzling. He hated to think how fast the fire might have spread otherwise. The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air, making his eyes tear up.

He felt his mobile vibrate in his coat pocket but he steadfastly ignored it. Sherlock and Lestrade could wait. The injured couldn’t. He stayed near the ambulance and administered oxygen to those suffering from smoke inhalation, poured saline solution in reddened eyes, patched up bloody cuts the best he could under the circumstances and applied cold compresses and silverdine ointment to minor burns. He quietly and selfishly thanked God other medics and doctors were handling the actual triage responsibility. His worst PTSD nightmares were always replays of the days when he had to decide who would have a chance to resume broken lives and who it would be more merciful to let die.

Feeling more exhausted in two hours than an eight hour stretch in surgery, John found himself pulling shards of glass out of an unfortunate plump woman in her mid-fifties, who, in her haste to escape the madness, tripped and fell onto the pavement littered with the glass of a broken shop window. John knew she was trying to be brave, but he also noticed (using his “Sherlock eyes” as he called it when he consciously looked for details others overlooked) how hard she bit her lower lip. “I know, I know,” he said soothingly as he daintily pulled another sliver of glass out of her palm the same way a lady might pluck out an eyebrow hair. “It is a dreadful business, but we’re almost through, I promise.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Did the hospital send your or are you here with Mr. Holmes?” she asked in a faint voice. Apologetically she added “I recognized you from the telly, you see. After the whole…” she trailed off and shook her head.

“Yes, yes, of course,” John gently cut her off, understanding she was in complete shock. Still, he took a minute to double-check her pupils, just to reassure himself she wasn’t concussed. “Well, I suppose it’s a bit of both that I’m here, isn’t it? Now, I need you to be brave just a minute more, there’s one more bad’un I need to pull out, then we’ll wrap you up and get you to the hospital to get this properly disinfected and wrapped up, OK?”

She nodded and gnawed on her lip again. Only this time, she did give a yelp of pain even though John tried to be as delicate as possible, but it was a hateful jagged piece of glass that took a bit of flesh along with it when he pulled it out. “There,” he said, disposing of the glass and putting the tweezers down. “All finished. Let’s get this washed up and wrapped up, shall we?”

“Oi! Dr. Watson?” the young medic in charge of the ambulance John had ended up volunteering at jogged up to him. “I think we can take it from here. Your mate is probably waiting for you up there,” he gestured towards the bombsite.”

“Right,” he muttered, still not comfortable being recognized or goggled at, not even after all this time “Let me finish with… I’m sorry, dear, didn’t catch your name?”

“Rita,” she said as John applied clean cotton wool to her hands, now bleeding anew. “Rita Stuart,” then she smiled wanly “but I’m not a meter-maid.”  

“Well, lovely Rita,” John reached for the gauze, “You were brilliant,” he smiled warmly at her “Just brilliant. Let me finish binding this and send you on your way, okay?”

After Rita was sent on her way, the young medic shook John’s hand after he peeled off the latex medical gloves. “Cheers, mate, I mean that. Was bit overwhelmed. Never seen anything this bad before.”

“Yes, well,” John said, feeling a blush creep up on his face. “Hippocratic oath and all that. I should…” he tilted his head towards the bombsite.

 “Right, right, right, of course. Good to meet you Dr. Watson,” he grinned at John “My girlfriend’s never going to believe I met Sherlock’s blogger.”

“Mmm,” John said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes before turning away to walk to the two blocks to the bombsite. The closer he got to the hull of a building, blackened and smoldering, he noticed how all the windows in the nearby buildings as well as the car windows were blown out, the actual neighboring buildings themselves seemed to be mostly unharmed. Odd, he thought.

When he reached the police tape, he saw his friend, meandering around the edges, getting as close to the rubble as the heat and damage would allow, holding his scarf to his nose and mouth to avoid breathing in the soot and ashes. Knowing that Sherlock would be consumed by the wreckage, John stalked over to Lestrade, who was less than three feet from the consulting detective. “Hey,” John shouted to Lestrade, who had just finished barking some orders into a walkie-talkie “Greg, over here.”

“John. Was wondering when I was going to see you pop up,” Lestrade said, looking at his watch as he walked over to lift the tape up so John could enter the crime scene.

“Yeah thanks for the head’s up about... about… THIS,” John waved his arms towards the destroyed building once he was on the other side of the tape. “I only came because I thought Sherlock was annoying everyone and Donovan was getting ready to murder him-“

“Hang on,” Lestrade ran his hand over his silvery hair, his brows crinkled in confusion. “Where did you get an idea like that? Granted, it’s not a huge leap to make, but Donovan’s not even here. She’s handling a different call. Clear across on the other side of the city.”

“You texted me that Donovan was getting ready to shoot Sherlock!”

“Oh bloody hell,” Lestrade muttered, digging in his coat pockets. Then he bawled out “SHERLOCK! GIVE ME BACK MY MOBILE!”

Even though he heard perfectly well what Lestrade shouted, Sherlock merely crouched down, staring intently at the pavement, letting his scarf slip from his slender fingers. Then he closed those intense, unsettling eyes of his. Studying the way he started waving his hands about, John knew Sherlock was not in this world, but mentally wandering around in that dratted “mind palace” of his. “Oh he’s not going to acknowledge your existence right now,” John sighed. “How’d you keep this out of the news?”

“The old gas leak story,” Lestrade said “Did not want to start a panic until we knew exactly what we were dealing with.” He paused “With You-Know-Who also making an afterlife appearance and all…”

“Right…” John suppressed a shudder remembering Jim Moriarty’s big screen debut only a few months ago. Merry Christmas…  Ironically, the Spider’s return had saved Sherlock from choosing between a life-sentence for murdering Charles Augustus Magnussen or a suicide mission for MI-6.

John still wasn’t certain what Sherlock had been doing for Mycroft in regards to the Moriarty Resurrection. Both brothers had sternly told John not to pry. John had a sinking feeling it wasn’t him they wanted to keep information from… but from Mary…

John now felt chilly, miserable and bone-tired. The adrenaline from treating the hurt had worn off. He desperately wanted a hot cup of tea and then sleep. He now noticed his socks felt damp. He wished he had worn sensible footwear instead of his work shoes. Then he looked down and saw the blood on his good coat as well as the nice scarf Mrs. Hudson had given him. “Damn,” he muttered. In a louder voice, he asked Lestrade “How’d you know it wasn’t just a gas leak?”

“Because I received a call telling me this location was going to blow in thirty seconds before it did,” Lestrade said flatly “And no. I didn’t get a chance to trace the call and I didn’t recognize the voice. It was a woman’s voice who said simply there was a bomb in this building and it was going to go off in sixty seconds. Then she rang off and a minute later, the 999 calls started flooding the switchboards.” He cast a dirty look towards Sherlock’s general direction. He was still crouched down and still moving his hands around like a man trying to push his way through a massive spider web. “He already interrogated me,” Lestrade snarled.

“What was here? Was this building anything special?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, “A surgery.”

“Sorry?”

“A surgery,” Lestrade repeated grimly. “Full of sick kids and old people. Poor folks who can’t get to a decent doctor or hospital from this godforsaken neighborhood.”

“Jesus,” John’s stomach roiled as he thought about the ill children and upset mothers he had left behind at his surgery. “Jesus… Any survivors?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not inside, no. Serious injuries outside the building… superficial wounds the further away from the blast they were. But-“

“Detective Inspector?” an unfamiliar voice called out. “We need you over here.”  

“Go,” John said, feeling the drizzle turning into a proper rain. “I’ll get your mobile back.”

Lestrade pulled his jacket’s hood over his head, “Thanks,” he said as he hurried off.

John shivered as he walked the few steps over to Sherlock, still crouched down. His beautiful Belstaff coat pooled around him like a lady’s formal dress, becoming waterlogged by the rain. But John saw he had stopped waving his hands around like a lunatic and his eyes had opened, staring at the ruins. “Rain’s washing away the evidence,” he muttered as a greeting, wrapping his long arms around his thin legs, hugging himself, shivering as well.

John knelt down beside him. “If you catch a cold, don’t come whinging to me, I’m cross with you. You can’t just order me to leave my job just because you’re having difficulty with yours. How’d you feel if I told you to drop everything you’re doing because I need your help at the surgery?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock murmured. “I would never come if you tried to command me.”

“True, but Sherlock-“

“What do you know about IEDs?” he interrupted.

“I know I hate them,” John responded promptly, knowing immediately Sherlock meant Improvised Explosive Device. “I had to patch up several blokes in Afghanistan because of those damned things. Lost a fair few too… wait, are you saying…?”

“Observe before we lose everything to the rain,” Sherlock pointed to the pavement. “See the black marks on the pavement? Scorch marks. Detonation spots. I spotted three such marks here before this cursed rain started falling.”

“Marks will probably still be there when the rain stops,” John said reasonably but Sherlock shook his head.

“Yes, but look John,” he pointed at the rubble now, “Look how the soot is already turning into a black sludge in. This will all be a big muddy mess in minutes,” Sherlock sulked, holding out his hand, watching the raindrops fall on his palm.

“So the blast came from without instead of within?” John asked, trying to steer Sherlock away from a temper tantrum.

“Obviously. Look at how the rubble is arranged. Not sprayed all over the place like it exploded out, but rather caved in on itself. Also, the buildings on the right and left are damaged but not destroyed. If the bomb had been inside, the flying debris would have taken out the neighboring buildings as well.”

John wracked his brain, trying to recall everything he knew about the accursed things, those dirty things that stole the lives and limbs of so many soldiers, so many young people. “There had to be more than three to blow up a building like this.”

“Agreed but Lestrade wouldn’t permit me to get any closer to the building than this or to go around back,” the sulky tone still in his voice. “So while it is logical to say that there has to be more than three to destroy a building of this size, even an old, small run-down building such as this, I do not have the data to substantiate that sort of claim.” He pointed to the sky, “Three on the roof, or one main bomb. Then three,” he pointed down to the pavement, “down here and three in back. Two in the alleys on either side. All disguised as ordinary things, bits of rubbish and litter so no one would notice or suspect. The smaller bombs would go off first, as a distraction. The larger bombs, on the roof, to collapse the building, ensuring that the damage would be localized just here. Similar to what they do in Las Vegas when they blow up an old hotel building as a show for the tourists before beginning to build anew.” Despite the cold rain, a smile crossed his face “Ingenious, really… impressive, actually…” The smile widened.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, sternly.

“Not good?”

“Dead kids,” he reminded him “Never good.” His knees and back aching from kneeling, he stood up and said “Come on, you’re right, the rain is washing everything important away. Let’s head back to Baker Street for a cuppa, I’m freezi- oh no,” John profoundly wished he hadn’t turned around, hadn’t made eye contact. Despite the rain, he could clearly see who waited for them on the other side of the police tape. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t get up, don’t turn around.”

“Who is standing at the police tape that you don’t want me to see,” Sherlock asked irritably, but to his credit, he stayed in his crouched position, facing the rubble. “Or to be accurate, who don’t you want to see me?”

“Kitty Riley,” John said, loathing lacing every syllable.

“Oh her,” Sherlock said scornfully. “Yes, she’s been flitting around the whole time like the flea she is. I smelled her foul perfume when I arrived here earlier actually. Was curious if she had planned on growing a backbone and showing her face or just sulk in the shadows. Although I’m mildly impressed she’s the only reporter not to believe Lestrade’s old gas leak explosion story.”

“Just stay here, please,” John said, glaring at the disgraced journalist who hovered by the police tape, holding a navy blue umbrella, wearing a proper rain coat and wellingtons. “Let me handle this, OK?”

Sherlock scowled but he complied with John’s wish and flipped his coat collar up to better hide his face when John removed his hand. “Careful,” he said softly, sardonically “That little shark might smell the blood on your jacket.”

John wasted no time storming over towards Riley. “Leave,” he said briskly before she could even say hello “Before you have yet another libel suit to contend with.”

“Hard to believe the great and immortal Mr. Holmes would be interested in a gas leak explosion,” Kitty Riley smiled, showing all her teeth but John could hear the sneer in her voice. Sherlock’s dig about her being a shark was spot-on, actually.  “What’s really going on, Dr. Watson?”

“What’s going on is the routine police investigation which follows any sort of explosion that Mr. Holmes and I were called in as consultants due to our combined experience. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, good day, Miss Riley.”

“First you believe the lies, now you repeat them,” Riley said, her smile now icy. “I’m not leaving until someone tells me the truth what happened here today.”

“I’ve told you what you need to know and now I’m tired of your little grudge match,” John stood nearly nose-to-nose with the foul woman. “You need to go. Immediately. Before I call over the Detective Inspector to escort you away seeing he’s even less of a fan of you and your writings than I am. You have absolutely no business being here. Especially since you got sacked after losing all the lawsuits and no paper or television station will touch you.”

“Grudge match?” she snapped, giving up all pretense of civility. “Oh this goes beyond a grudge match, Dr. Watson. I know Richard Brooks was innocent-“

“Oh dear God,” John groaned.

Had she been out of the country when “Richard Brooks” hijacked every screen in England?

Riley kept talking: “And that junkie, that psychopath kneeling in the mud over there in his fancy coat murdered Richard then faked his own death to get away with it and then returns to the land of the living like nothing ever happened. Well, Dr. Watson, while I admire you and your loyalty to your friend, I swear I will expose Sherlock Holmes for the utter fraud that he is.”

“You know, you come up with brilliant fiction, you really do,” John said, clenching his fists, feeling rage spreading through his body, warming him in the cold spring rain. “You really need to find a job where you can use your gifts… ah wait, I know. They’re hiring over at FOX News. In America. Hop across the pond and work over there, won’t you?”

“Is there a problem?” Lestrade materialized by John’s side, glaring at Riley. Lestrade still had his hood up over his head. John hadn’t known who stood next to him until he heard his voice.

“I was just leaving, Detective Inspector,” Riley said, turning on her heel.

As soon as the former reporter was safely out of earshot, Lestrade said tersely “Stupid bint.”

“Agreed,” John unclenched his fists.

“I don’t believe in hitting women, but in her case, I’d consider making an exception.”

“Queue up then,” John said before he could help himself. “Come on, I think we can safely get your mobile back now.”

“Any theories?” Lestrade asked when they reached Sherlock, still crouching down, the hems of his coat a soggy, muddy mess now.

“Hm?” Sherlock said dreamily “Sorry… I was recalling how before I jumped off the roof that I briefly fantasized ringing Miss Riley up and asking if she’s mind laying on the ground below to cushion my fall. After all,” he stood up, graceful as a cat. “It wouldn’t have been the first time a man used her as a mattress.”

While Lestrade sniggered John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock comments like that were Absolutely Positively Not Good. But when he remembered the utterly derogatory comments he and Lestrade had made about Riley only a few seconds ago, he snapped his mouth shut very quickly, deciding against this particular lecture. When it came to Sherlock and manners, it was all about picking your battles. Kitty Riley definitely was not worth battling over.

“Despite all the evidence to the contrary, despite his face being on every fucking telly and mobile screen in England, that daft girl still believes ‘Richard Brooks’ was real,” Lestrade informed Sherlock.

“Obviously. She was in love with the Richard persona and now has formed an obsessive sentimental attachment to the memory of a figment of her imagination. Jim Moriarty became whatever she needed him to be in order coerce her into slandering me. The Middle Child Syndrome couldn’t be more apparent in her personality: ‘Mummy, Daddy, look at me, look at me, love me, pay attention to me instead of my popular older sister or my adorable baby brother.’ That’s not a guess, by the way. When John and I were in her hideous flat, I saw a small framed photograph of her family in her lounge. Despite the dreadful hair and fashions popular in the Eighties, I was still able to deduct that her older sister was the charming one and her little brother was the cute one.” Sherlock abruptly turned and walked towards the police tape. John and Lestrade had to jog to keep up with Sherlock’s long-legged stride.

Sherlock kept his diatribe flowing as he walked, not bothering to avoid puddles. “So, denied affection from her idiot parents, Miss Riley’s desire for attention and affection plus her enviable connections in the media world made her a perfect target for Moriarty’s manipulations,” He lifted the police tape, not even looking to see if John and Lestrade were still behind him.

“Now “Richard’s” gone and ergo, the love and security she associated with “Richard” is gone, so Miss Riley has decided to deal with her grief and loss by creating this pointless vendetta against me (which she will ultimately lose, by the way) instead of pursuing more productive and attainable goals. She will not however let go of her need for revenge as of right now because first she is not willing to admit she was thick enough to be deceived by such an obvious ploy as love and second is she not willing to take responsibility for her role in the series of unfortunate events that led me to jumping off the roof of St. Bart’s.” He paused, closing his eyes. “Boring,” he proclaimed, slicking his wet hair back. He turned his head up to feel the raindrops splash on his face, “Boring and predictable.”

“That may be,” John said giving Sherlock a gentle push so he would continue walking away from the bombed out building and towards Lestrade’s car. “But she’s still going to be a thorn in our sides for quite some time.”

“Also boring,” Sherlock said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, ducking his head. His wet curls fell in his eyes again “Detective Inspector, if not inconvenient, could you please drive John and I to Baker Street but only take the back way and let us out behind the building? Miss Riley undoubtedly has alerted the media that this was no gas leak explosion and the paparazzi will be waiting at my front door.”

“Mrs. Hudson is going to have kittens,” John said as Lestrade asked “How’re you going to get inside Baker Street? Want me to have a few uniforms waiting to keep the mob back?”

“No,” Sherlock said as Lestrade unlocked his car doors. “We’ll go up the fire escapes and go through the skylight in John’s old room, like before.”

“What? No,” John said as he sat up front with Lestrade and Sherlock climbed in the back seat. “I know it’s great fun for you to thumb your nose at the paps by sneaking in and out of 221B, but I really don’t fancy the idea of climbing around wet ladders and running around the rooftops like brain-damaged monkeys.”

“What,” Sherlock said coldly “makes you think I have any fondness for roofs?”

Lestrade cleared his throat to cut the uncomfortable silence as he started driving. “It’s really no problem for me to call some boys to keep the paps back if you really think that stupid girl would alert the media. Anderson’s still on my shit list, I can call him.”

By some minor miracle, Anderson got his job back at The Met. Sally Donovan had held on to hers by only the slenderest of threads.

“No,” Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

“Sherlock, don’t be an idiot,” John turned around in his seat to face his friend. “Come with me to my house. Stay a few days until the photogs get bored and go away. Mary’s got the guest room all fixed up, it looks really ni-“

“No.” This refusal was more forceful than before.

“Sherlock, come on-“

“I would prefer to go home now,” Sherlock enunciated every word clearly as if he was speaking to either a very dim child or someone who was learning English as a second language.

“We could go to a pub, get a bite or a pint?” Lestrade attempted again to smooth things over but John just shook his head.

“It’s fine,” John lied because it wasn’t fine. Not by a long shot.

One of the obvious repercussions of Sherlock’s miracle return was his utter and complete contempt of the media. He barely tolerated the press prior to The Fall as it was. But Sherlock became literally allergic to the press after the disastrous Magnussen case. He had led on Magnussen’s personal assistant, Janine in an attempt to gain access to Magnussen’s penthouse. He even went as so far as to propose to the poor girl… with disastrous results.

 In revenge, Janine sold the tabloids sordid details about a love affair that never happened. Only John understood why Sherlock let Janine get away with it, but not Kitty Riley.

Sherlock had hurt Janine, cut her deep with his deceit. Not suing her was his way of acknowledging the wrong he caused her. It was John who had to call the tabloids, threaten them with additional litigation if they did not retract their stories.

But the whole debacle only made Sherlock hate the press even more, especially after he learned how people like Magnussen manipulated it. Soon his hatred began to manifest itself in physical symptoms.

After suffering through a press conference his elder brother Mycroft forced him into after Moriarty made his unnerving reappearance, John had to go to Baker Street with a prescription-strength salve to treat a painfully itchy outbreak of hives which had erupted across Sherlock’s neck, arms and beautiful hands. He had snarled and fidgeted and complained bitterly about not being to play the violin for a week while his hands healed.

Even now, looking in the wing mirror, John saw Sherlock unsteeple his fingers and, with his brows furrowed and lips pressed tightly together, ball up his right hand while reaching around to scratch the back of his neck with his left. John hoped there was still some of the salve left over otherwise Sherlock was going to be in for a wretched night. 

John did not blame him for having such a violent reaction towards the press, even before Janine had sold him out. Three years ago, the press had been so willing to prosecute, convict and condemn him in the public eye before having all the facts about the American ambassador’s children. They saw only what Moriarty had wanted them to see but if any of them, if just one journalist had enough nerve, enough courage to look deeper at the picture Moriarty painted, to read between the lines of his twisted fairy tale, to actually do their damn job and investigate…

Cowards, he thought. The lot of them… but I suppose that’s neither here nor there and now that they know Sherlock and I will sue them for libel and slander, the reporters aren’t too quick to leap to conclusions now are they? John reminded himself.

After all, the down payment for the tidy little terrace house in London he and Mary now resided at came from the settlement from his lawsuit against Kitty Riley and the detestable tabloid that had employed her. Sherlock had been right; living in that rented house in the suburbs had been intolerable. One of his conditions with reuniting with Mary was they had to move back to the city.

He had no idea what Sherlock did with the money he won from his lawsuit. He wondered if Sherlock would have even filed suit against Kitty Riley’s tabloid if Mycroft hadn’t nagged him incessantly about it.

Mycroft. A not so obvious repercussion from the Fall and Rise. They already had an unhealthy, strained relationship to begin with. But it had steadily worsened ever since Sherlock returned… the first and the second time. John knew Mycroft had been angry when Sherlock returned (the first time) but didn’t understand why Mycroft was still livid with Sherlock (the second time). Granted John had been furious and hurt as well, but once he pried it out of Molly Hooper exactly why Sherlock left (the first time) … Why he had jumped, the sacrifice he made...

Well, maybe I shouldn’t have tried to beat him up three times in a row in one night…  John reflected as Lestrade maneuvered through London’s terrifying traffic. But Mycroft…

Not that John had a fantastic, warm, loving relationship with his sister Harry by any stretch of the imagination. Didn’t even bother to show up for my own wedding… However he knew in his heart-of-hearts if Harry had disappeared then came back from the dead, he would be grateful she was unharmed. Would try a bit harder to build a loving relationship with her. Mycroft on the other hand had turned positively glacial during the past year or so. In public, he still said the correct things a man should say about the return of the prodigal brother, but it was a completely different story behind closed doors. No killing of the fatted calf for Sherlock.

Meaning well (and also tired of the paparazzi putting everyone living at Baker Street essentially under house arrest) Mrs. Hudson had asked Mycroft to intervene. Sherlock had balked when Mycroft “suggested” he come stay at their family home in the country until the paparazzi found a new story to sink their talons into. John and Mary, Molly and Mrs. Hudson had ganged up on Sherlock to go at once when they all realized he hadn’t left the flat in three days and had been suffering silently with another bout of those dreadful hives…. Well not in complete silence.

There were more bullet holes in the wall now.   

It had seemed like a good idea for Sherlock to go at the time, especially after the entire Charles Augustus Magnussen nightmare. With a stab of guilt, John vividly and suddenly remembered the dreadful night a month ago when he and Mary had to drive to the Holmes’ estate in the middle of Bloody Effing Nowhere to fetch Sherlock after they both received a text that simply read “TAKE ME HOME NOW – SH”.

Sherlock never used all-caps.

After an already stressful night caused by getting lost in the English countryside trying to find the damnable place, it had been nearly two in the morning when they finally knocked at the front door. Despite the late hour, a tuxedoed servant (butler? John hadn’t been sure what the man’s proper job title was but he had honestly believed servants only wore livery on television dramas like Downton Abbey) had answered and immediately escorted John and Mary to a beautiful library, full of antique furniture, old books and regal paintings. John and Mary followed the butler, mouths hanging open. They had both met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes on a few occasions… nice and ordinary as you can please. John and Mary had looked at each other, asking each other silently the same question: where in the hell did all this wealth come from?

John and Mary had felt profoundly out of place in the estate, both wearing blue jeans and trainers. Mary had pulled on one of John’s old jumpers before they left and her hair had been held back by kirby pins. John’s hair had been sticking up like hedgehog quills, as Mary would say and he only had time to grab his jacket so he had spent most of the night shivering in a thin coat and gray t-shirt. He had never felt so raggedy in his life.  

Sherlock of course, was wearing one of his slim-cut designer suits, black, naturally. He had stood with his back to them, his hands loosely clasped behind him, in front of the fire place, but when he turned around, Mary gave a little gasp, almost a scream.

“What… what the bloody hell, Sherlock?” John had spluttered when he saw the cut lip, the Elastoplast over one eyebrow. He then saw there were flecks of dried blood on his normally pristine white dress shirt. A few buttons had popped off his shirt as well.

Then he noticed all the game boards and pieces scattered everywhere: Cluedo, Operation, Trivial Pursuit (Genius Edition) and Monopoly, a total juxtaposition to regal looking library with its high mahogany shelves full of leather bound books.

“Oh good, you’re earlier than I thought,” Sherlock had said calmly, as if they were just picking him up to go to the cinema or out to lunch. “Shall we?”He reached down and collected his coat, scarf, suitcase and violin case. John then saw the cuts and scrapes on Sherlock’s hands

“What happened?” Mary had started to ask but Mycroft appeared, giving both John and Mary a fright. Mycroft had also looked the worse for wear. Instead of his neat suits, he was actually in pajamas, dressing gown and slippers. His nose however had looked dreadfully puffy and his right eye had been blackened. He also had not been moving very quickly.

“Brother dear, I have decided to return to London,” Sherlock had said breezily, striding out of the library as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“An excellent idea,” Mycroft had responded dryly.

“Give my regards to Mother,” Sherlock had called as he disappeared down the hallway.

Mary, her pretty blue eyes as big and round as saucers, had tried to ask again “What happened?” but Mycroft curtly bade them good night and left as silently as he had arrived.

But John had shrewdly guessed that the Holmes brothers had gotten into some sort of row that deteriorated into a little boys’ brawl. What exactly the fight was about however, was still to this day a mystery. Once everyone and everything was loaded up into Mary’s car, Sherlock had curled up in the back seat and fallen asleep. He didn’t move until they were than a block away from John and Mary’s house. “Take me to Baker Street,” he had murmured.

Both Mary and John tried to reason to him. Mary had gone as far as to park her car and turn off the ignition. John had threatened to leave him in the backseat, but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. Sleep-deprived, with the dawn steadily approaching, Mary and John had simply looked at each other and had one of those silent conversations close couples have, then had gotten back into the car and deposited him back at Baker Street. 

But Baker Street was another one of the subtle repercussions of the Rise. Sherlock’s preoccupation with Going Home. Whenever he announced he wanted to go home, it was like a proclamation from Parliament. No, John corrected himself, more like a papal bull. So shall it was decreed, so shall it be. Not even a herd of nasty reporters was going to stop him. John thought he understood how 221B Baker Street wasn’t just a flat to him. It represented a safe haven for Sherlock. Safe from the paparazzi, the reporters, the gawkers and looky-loos who just wanted to meet the Great Consulting Detective. Sherlock no longer met prospective clients at the flat, preferring Skype, if he absolutely had to communicate with them at all. Or he sent John to meet them… if the case was worth taking… a hard Seven at least.

Really the only other people allowed in the flat were John and Mrs. Hudson. 

John feared his eccentric friend was dangerously close to becoming a recluse again (not to mention diving back headfirst into his old vices).

Back in April of last year, he had convinced everyone in their little circle to gang up on Sherlock, only this time to find a new flat mate. Lestrade, Molly, John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson all insisted Sherlock find someone else to live with him after John got married so he wouldn’t be alone. Sherlock spat out logical arguments why he preferred living alone but always ended up trying again to find a flat mate just so everyone would shut up and leave him alone.

Most flat mates only lasted for mere days.

After the third flat mate fled in terror after twenty-four hours because Sherlock “accidentally” let loose a swarm of bees inside the flat during one of his experiments, the indefatigable Molly Hooper created a pool to see how long the next poor bugger would last. John had won fifty quid in last month’s pool.

“Well,” Mary had said practically when he treated her to a night out at the cinema and coffee afterwards with the winnings “At least some good came out of it, I suppose. Makes up for driving out to fetch him from Middlemarch.”

As they neared Baker Street, John wondered if the current flat mate was still there. If the poor chap could last just one more week, John would win the pot again.

Lestrade, out of curiosity, had taken the main way back. Sherlock slid down in the back the closer they got. “I dunno Sherlock,” Lestrade said, seeing the reporters and photogs blocking the entrances to the flat and Speedy’s Café as he drove past “Maybe staying with John and Mary might not be a terrible idea after all.”

“Just go around back,” Sherlock had slid completely down in his seat down, hunched down like some hobgoblin, his knees nearly touching his ears. Really, it always astonished John all the ways he could contort his long, slender frame.

Lestrade looked over at John, who nodded “It’s fine, really,” John lied again. “The fire escape and skylight really isn’t as dramatic as it sounds.”   

“Of course, because nothing says ‘casual entrance’ then climbing up a ladder then entering through a hole in the roof,” Lestrade’s voice dripped with sarcasm but he drove around the block to let them out where Sherlock had requested.

Sherlock unfolded himself and opened the car door. “I need to think… I’ll call you in three days after I narrow down the possible motives to three. Don’t call or text me unless something interesting develops with this case.”

He opened the car door but Lestrade said “Oi! My mobile, if you please.”

“Of course,” Sherlock dug into his coat pocket and handed Lestrade the Smartphone. He gave a slight pause then said “And do send a proper police car to chase off those dratted photogs… John’s right, Mrs. Hudson probably has had a litter of kittens by now.” He got out and slammed the car door behind him.

“Keep an eye on him?” Lestrade asked John.

“Trying,” John said. “Greg, there’s going to come a time where I’m not going to be able to…”

“I know,” Lestrade said, “We count on you too much.  Just… y’know, do what you can until you can’t. We’ll figure something out once you and Mary start a family…” he trailed off, blushing. “Sorry,” he mumbled self-consciously.  “I’m so sorry…”

Already under an unbearable amount of tension, Mary’s blood pressure had steadily, insidiously climbed higher and higher on the day when Sherlock was supposed to leave for his “Eastern European Mission.”  Then the cramps started during the car ride back to London after Moriarty’s mocking face pulled Sherlock back into the game. Then the bleeding started.

Then the cramps had turned into true contractions by the time they had hit the city limits and both John and Sherlock had shouted at the driver to take them to St. Bart’s immediately. 

His daughter had been born less than an hour later but Mary, drained and damaged by the process, had slipped into a coma. Transfusions. Unconscious for three days.

During those horrible three days, John believed he would truly lose the three people he loved the most. But Sherlock had pulled a rabbit out of his hat and Mary had opened her eyes…

But their daughter, tiny girl, precious babe, had only lived for forty hours. Not even two full days. Her premature lungs hadn’t been able to fight off the infection that materialized within her on her first and last night on earth.

Of course she had slipped away while Sherlock, acting on Mycroft’s orders, had taken John out for a drink and a meal. He barely had a chance to say hello to his daughter. And he never had the chance to say good-bye.

Her mother, comatose, never even saw her or held her.

John and Mary had talked about trying again… but it had all just been that. Talk.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “It’s just that, um, well the Great Man is finally starting to slowly become a Good Man and I’d hate to lose that momentum.”

“Understood,” John said, “Tomorrow night, stop by after you’re off work. Have a proper meal.”

“Now, I really couldn’t impose,” Lestrade said like he always.

“I insist,” John responded like he always did. “Mary makes enough to feed an army. You’d be doing me a favor. Think I’ve gained seven more pounds.”

“Well, put it that way, don’t mind if I do,” Lestrade said. “Do you care if I bring Molly?”

“Sure, that’d be great. We haven’t really seen her much lately, outside of St. Bart’s, that is.”

“She’s been busy,” Lestrade said quickly. “Speaking of busy, I better go too.”  

“Right,” John got out of the car. He waved as Lestrade drove off. Thankfully the rain had let up, but it was getting dark and it was still damp and chilly. It was hard to see Sherlock scurrying up the fire escapes, but John could see him darting up the rickety stairs. He was also pleased to see that Sherlock actually left the ladder down so he could actually reach it this time.

Still, the wet metal made John nervous as he slowly climbed up the ladder and then up the stairs up towards the roof. The stairs swayed underneath his feet as John went up. The rust on the railings rubbed off on his hands. He resolutely looked up and made himself keep climbing.

He pulled himself up the ledge and swung his legs over, which was actually the most nerve-wrecking part. I bloody hate roofs John thought viciously as he walked over to Sherlock who had gotten the skylight open. “After you,” Sherlock said, gesturing grandly towards the open window.

John climbed down the small wooden ladder that led into his old bedroom. It looked decidedly unlived in. The bed was stripped and the wardrobe was empty, the doors swinging open. “Where’s Nelson?” he asked, peeling off his bloody coat as Sherlock started climbing down.

“I threw him out,” Sherlock closed the window, secured the hidden latch (John still couldn’t figure how Sherlock was able to open the skylight form the outside) and then climbed the rest of the way down.

“Oh no,” John closed his eyes. “Not literally, I hope?”

“Not this time,” Sherlock folded the ladder up.

“Okay, but Sherlock, why did you chuck him out?” he followed him out his old room down to the messy familiar lounge.  Test tubes, tea cups and papers littering everywhere, the yellow spray painted smiley face still on the wall. The Cluedo board had been taken down ages ago but in its place was a paperback novel called The Secret Life of Bees. A knife had been thrust through it just like it had been through the Cluedo board. John gestured wordless towards the impaled paperback as he sunk down into the chair he always thought was his.

Strange, how comforting and relaxing it was to sit in his chair here. Not that he didn’t love Mary, didn’t love being married… but I belong here… a small incessant voice whispered in his head. He pushed the thought out of his head and focused on what Sherlock was saying.   

“I thought the book was non-fiction. Because I didn’t have receipt and because I bought it off the clearance rack, the book store wouldn’t take it back.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat and scarf, letting them fall in a heap on the floor then went to draw the drapes. “As for Nelson, he was a lackey of Mycroft’s,”

“Ah,” John said. “Spying on you then?”

“Yes and he refused to split the fee he was receiving from Mycroft,” he paused at the window where he loved to stand and play the violin. Looking down at the street, looking at the reporters milling around, he muttered “Good God they really are like insects, buzzing around, feeding off of refuse, spreading disease. Not an original thought in their tiny heads,” his hand strayed to his neck, scratching again “Schadenfrende, John, must be lucrative way to make a living otherwise I cannot imagine how they can handle the dullness of it all,” he pulled the drapes shut with a swift swish. “There’s no challenge in reveling in another’s misery.”

Seeing Sherlock getting worked up, John said “Sit.”

“No.”

“Sit down and let me see your neck.” 

 “Oh,” Sherlock pulled his hand away, “It’s nothing.”

“Sit,” John stood up now “Unless you want it to spread to your arms and hands again? Or maybe move up onto your face this time? Don’t you want to be able to think clearly about the bombing and be able to play violin? Or do you want to be an itchy scabby mess again?”

Sherlock slipped off his suit jacket with a grouchy “Very well,” and loosened a few buttons of his purple dress shirt. He sat down in his favorite chair “If you must.”

John crossed over and pulled the shirt collar down. He ran his finger gently over the angry red bumps the size of a pence running up and down the left side of his neck. Sherlock squirmed under John’s touch. “Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “That makes the itching worse.”

“I think we caught this bout early, I only count five this time,” John said. “Be right back.” He went through Sherlock’s room to the master bathroom, retrieving the small tube of salve from the medicine cabinet. Returning to the lounge where Sherlock still sat, crossed-legged and brooding, John unscrewed the small cap and applied the salve to his fingers first, then gently rubbed the salve onto Sherlock’s irritated skin. “You can’t let them get to you, Sherlock,” John said in a soft voice. “You must learn to ignore the fleas. It doesn’t do you any good to get worked up into a state like this.”

“I am perfectly aware of that,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes, finally getting relief from the painful itching. “Do you think it pleases me when my body chooses to betray my emotions by producing these tedious and irritating inflammations? Do you not think I’d rather life was like it was before, where I could detach myself from pointless emotion and observe unencumbered all that goes around me with a clear mind?”

“Maybe if you’d just admit you’re angry as hell the press stole two years of your life instead of trying to shove those memories down, your body would stop betraying how you really feel.” John screwed the lid back on the salve.  

“Anger is pointless emotion to exercise when it cannot undo what has occurred in the past. It clouds the mind; it causes you to make mistakes. Come John, how many crimes have we observed in the past that were simply crimes of passion? Caused in the ‘heat of the moment’ as they say. An upset husband pulls a gun on an unfaithful wife. A frustrated parent lashes out and strikes an ill-behaved child. Anger does not solve problems nor is it a cause of problems. It is an accelerant as gasoline is to fire. Not only does anger serve as a socially acceptable mask to hide true thoughts, it also acts as a blindfold.”

Sherlock stretched out his legs and stared up at the ceiling, fingertips underneath his chin. “Observe how Miss Riley’s resentment towards me has dulled her already limited wits. Whereas my mental capacity (which is vast, you must admit) must be kept in a state of perpetual motion or else it stagnates. Nursing old hurts will only slow me down, stall me, which we both know such an idle state is far more dangerous for me to be in then all the other considerable physical risks I have taken to life and limb. Once I figure out a suitable coping mechanism to keep my body from reacting so violently whenever someone from the media is near, then I will be able to better control my emotions and delegate the entire memory of the Fall and Rise to its proper place in my mind palace where hopefully I will never have to visit that particular room ever again. Or maybe be able to delete it entirely…” 

“Delete it so we don’t ever going to talk about it, is that it? Is that what you what?” John asked, plunging into a very overdue conversation, one they had both been studiously avoiding during the eighteen months Sherlock had been back. “What happened, where you went after the Fall?”

“I told you what you-“

“Needed to know, sure, yeah, you did,” John put the salve tube on the small table next to Sherlock’s chair and sat down across from him. “It was Molly who told me how you tricked Moriarty’s snipers and the rest of us mere mortals into thinking you had committed suicide and why you had to pull such a dirty trick on all of us.”

Hearing the hurt in John’s voice, Sherlock continued studying the ceiling. “It wasn’t a dirty trick,” he said patiently “with malicious intent to wound. It was a necessity with regrettable repercussions.”

“And I get that, I do, Sherlock and I’m grateful to you and Molly and the Homeless Network for everything you did to keep me and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe… I can’t ever repay you for that. And I know while you were ‘dead’ you weren’t on holiday but you were still protecting us. I know you were hunting down the rest of the spiders who still kept spinning Moriarty’s webs,” John leaned forward, fixing his earnest eyes on Sherlock. The seat creaked underneath him “I’m talking to you, mate. Look at me, not the ceiling.”

Sherlock tilted his head down, his unnerving eyes locked on John’s face. He lifted his heavy black brows as if to say “Well, get on with it.”

“What happened to you while you were gone?” John said. “Where did you go? Where did you stay? I have a feeling you weren’t staying five-star hotels aboard while trying to tear down Moriarty’s webs,” John tried to smile but Sherlock’s face turned to marble. “I’m your friend, I’m not trying to pry,” John plowed on. “But I’m also a doctor and I’m also a soldier and I know PTSD when I see it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes then looked at the floor. “John, please believe me when I say there are times that ignorance is bliss and this is one of those times.”

“No,” John said firmly, standing up “This is not one of those times. I’m not as clever as you or as quick, but I can observe things too. You never regained the weight you lost after the shooting. You’ve been sneaking cigs, I can smell that on your coat and clothes and you’re not sleeping.”

Sherlock rubbed his forehead “I’m working. I fast and I require very little sleep when I’m working. That is a constant,” Defensively he added “Also it is better I smoke the occasional cigarette rather than to indulge in one of my old unsavory vices, don’t you think?”

“Is it the same dreams again?” John demanded.

This made Sherlock jerked his head up. “What?”

“The nightmares. The ones you tried to hide from me when I stayed here after, uh, you got shot. When did they start up again? Or maybe they just never went away.” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John said quietly “Not even you can control your mind palace when you sleep.”

“Actually I’ve been studying lucid dreaming-“ Sherlock started but John cut him off.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s me, OK? I’m not some filthy pap’s trying to make money off your misery. I’m not Riley trying to wreck your life and I’m not fucking Magnussen.” 

John took a deep breath, instructing himself to Calm The Hell Down. “I’m not Mrs. Hudson or Molly trying to mother you either…  I’m just…” John realized he had been pacing so he made himself sit down again and to say very calmly “This is the way I see it… everybody has a Fall of some sort. Something that makes your world come crashing down. Well, my Fall was Afghanistan. I don’t have your gift of detachment so it was unbearable, patching up those kids only to send them out to get shot or blown up again. Over and over, nothing but sand and blood, day in and day out, sand and blood, sand and blood… I was a nervous wreck when I got back to London. A car backfiring could send me into a blinding panic. I watched crap telly at two in the morning because it was better than waking up screaming… then, I ran into an old friend who told me an acquaintance of his was looking for a flat mate and well… somehow, not only did you figure in less than five seconds I was a former solider with a messed up head, but you figured out how to pull me up and out of the hole I had fallen into and… well, now the roles have been reversed, haven’t they?” John felt his throat tighten. “You helped me. Now I want to help you. I owe you-“

“Don’t!” Sherlock said sharply, visibly recoiling from John’s last sentence. “Whatever you do or say for the rest of your life, please, don’t ever say ‘I owe you’ to me ever again.”

I owe you a fall… 

John then realized Moriarty’s creepy, oily tenor voice echoed throughout Sherlock’s dreams. The Spider would live on in Sherlock’s mind palace forever; escaping from whatever room he tried to lock him in, scurrying and lurking in the dark rooms and corners, waiting for Sherlock to make a wrong turn. Maybe the mind palace wasn’t the fortress Sherlock thought it was.

“Then, let me say instead that you deserve someone to help you… not because you’re too thick to figure out yourself. It’s just sometimes it’s better to have a bit of help. That’s all.” John looked away. Had to. Sherlock’s eyes had grown too bright, too wet while John had been talking.

In a deeper voice than usual, Sherlock said “In my own time, John. Not tonight, but in my own way, my own time, yes, I will tell you everything.”

“Promise?” John asked gruffly.

“I promise,” Sherlock said softly.

“Good,” John said, “Good, well… um…” he wasn’t sure where to go from here. He didn’t want to let the scene get sloppy or else the progress made this early evening might become undone.

Fortunately there was a knock at the door “Sherlock? Yoo-hoo, are you in there?” Mrs. Hudson called. John got up and let the beloved landlady in. She smiled and clasped her hands in delight “Oh John, didn’t know you were here. Sherlock, those dreadful paparazzi are blocking my doorway again, did something happen? Is everything alright?”

“Lestrade should be sending a patrol car to tell them to clear off,” John reassured her, kissing her cheek. He told her his usual lie “Everything is fine.”

But her eyes were on his scarf, hanging forgotten around his neck. “Fine? What happened to this, is this blood? Oh dear, I gave this to you for Christmas.” She glared at both men “And both sitting there in wet clothes, mud all over the floor, you’ll catch your deaths of cold.” She stooped down to pick up Sherlock’s coat and scarf. “Lucky for you two I’ve got some dresses to drop off at the cleaners tomorrow, I’ll bring these in as well.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured while John said “That’s not necessary.”

“Well, it’s just this one time. Not your housekeeper, you know.”

John and Sherlock both hid their smiles. “Of course,” Sherlock demurred.

“And if Lestrade is going to help chase off those disgusting people outside, then I won’t worry about it. Was just about to have tea, would you two care to join me?”

“I really should get home,” John said regretfully, “Mary will be waiting.”

“Oh at least stay until those horrid people outside are gone,” Mrs. Hudson pleaded. “Don’t get to see you much now you’re a married man and all.”

John checked his watch. Mary wasn’t expecting him for at least another two hours. Of course, he had told her he had to work late because he thought he would be in his office at the surgery, catching up on his charts and other paperwork. “Oh, twist my arm then, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Lovely,” she said. “Now, get out of those wet things and come down. John, I’ve got some old things of my husband’s-“

“That’s OK,” John said quickly, not wanting to wear a dead man’s clothes. “I’ve still got some clothes here.” He had learned the hard way it was just best to keep a change or two of clothes plus a coat and a pair of trainers at Sherlock’s. For the nights that weren’t boring.

But is it ever boring, John thought as he trod back to his old room, feeling exhausted again when Sherlock is around?

A rule Sherlock had strictly enforced with all his flat mates (or victims as John was beginning to think of them) that one drawer of the bureau in the upstairs bedroom was designated for John. This touched John for some absurd reason. Sherlock had mumbled something about he was just being “practical” and had then resumed taking apart the new flat screen telly he had bought just for the sole purpose of dismantling it to see if he could put it back together. (He could and gave it later to John for a belated Christmas present.) So from the dresser in his old room, he pulled out a pair of trousers, a red jumper, pants and a pair of thick warm socks, all blissfully clean and dry. He changed quickly but didn’t put his wet shoes back on, hoping they’d be dry somewhat when it was time to go home to Mary.

When he returned to the lounge, wet clothes and coat over his arms, John saw Sherlock had not moved from his chair. He was dead asleep. John considered rousing him to at least get him to change out of his muddy trousers and socks, but decided against it. Instead, he put his wet things down in his chair and went to pull the duvet off of Sherlock’s bed. Returning to the lounge, he wrapped it around him. “G’night Sherlock,” he whispered softly, hoping no bad dreams would interrupt the man’s much needed sleep.

He turned up the thermostat, turned off the light and shut the door behind him.

+++

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: People Will Talk

The nightmare was always almost the same. Sherlock stood on the roof’s ledge, toes just over the edge. He could feel the wind on his face and his coat billowing around him. Then he would hop down to the safety of the rooftop, smiling smugly at Jim Moriarty, informing the villain he had no intention of jumping to his death, he knew he could force Moriarty to call off the snipers.

But here was always when the dream diverted from reality. Here, Moriarty smiled and said in that high, silky voice of his “Oh I know… that’s why there’s no sniper…”

Then Sherlock would see John on the roof, kneeling down behind Moriarty. Not standing below, safe on the ground, on his mobile, begging him not to jump. But here on the roof, on his knees, hands on his head, starting to say his name: “Sherlo-”

But before he could finish, Moriarty pulled out his gun and shot John in the head. John slumped down, face first into a pool of his own blood.

Sometimes Mrs. Hudson was a hostage in the dreams too, sometimes Molly. Sherlock never fully deduced why Moriarty targeted Lestrade, instead of Molly. Yes, he enjoyed the DI’s company, appreciated the work he received from him and did not wish to see him any permanent harm. However, to be perfectly honest, Molly would have been a more logical target than Lestrade. Unless Moriarty had developed a sentimental attachment to the girl during the brief time he “dated” her to get closer to him. Sherlock doubted it. However that seemed to be the only logical reason why the hit was on Lestrade rather than Molly. Lestrade’s death would have been regrettable but Molly’s death would have cut Sherlock to core. She counted.

And yet, in the dreams, it was always John getting murdered, always John getting hurt because when he wasn’t dreaming about what could have happened, he dreamed about what did happen… the last fight they had before the Fall, where John called him a ‘machine’, John pleading with him on the mobile not to jump, his farewell at the cemetery, his solitary fight to restore Sherlock’s reputation postmortem, John leaving Sherlock behind to be married… 

Tonight’s dream had a new and horrifying twist. Tonight Mary Watson had made an appearance, on her knees, next to her husband, tears streaming down her face. John was still shot first, but Mary was quickly executed right afterwards, collapsing right next to John’s body, their blood pooling into one large ruby puddle on the rooftop of St. Bart’s... blood and tears.

Sherlock jolted awake, swallowing a shout. Confused, he wondered why it was so dark in the flat, why he wrapped in a thick blanket…

He took a breath and told himself, ordered himself to calm down and think logically. He had dozed off when John went to change out of his wet clothing. John, worried about him catching a chill and becoming ill, had wrapped him in his duvet to keep him warm as he slept. John had turned off the lights and went down to tea at Mrs. Hudson’s alone to let him rest.

Clutching the duvet, he rose and walked into his bedroom, pausing to turn the thermostat down. John always preferred the flat to be as warm as a desert. His body had never completely adjusted back to the English climate after his stint in Afghanistan.

Sherlock stripped off the damp clothes, considered putting on pajamas, but deciding against it and wrapped himself up in the duvet again. Clutching it around his body, sitting in the middle of his bed, he mulled over the conversation he and John had before he had nodded off.

Yes, he owed John a full explanation. After his Rise, he kept John on a Need-to-Know basis, especially as to what he had been doing those two years he had been gone because the very real threat to John’s life had not been completely eradicated. Now it wasn’t just John’s life, but Mary’s life and any potential children they may have together… seeing that they had lost a child already. Plus Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and yes, even Lestrade were not completely safe. Even the elusive Irene Adler was still at risk, a slim one to be sure but the risk was still there.  

 Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage.

Sherlock, drifting through in his mind palace now, pushed Mycroft out of his thoughts, completely unaware his hand made an actual pushing gesture. When in his mind palace, he was completely unaware of what his body did as he wandered from room-to-room.

He wished John would accept that in this circumstance, ignorance truly was bliss. The less he knew about Moriarty’s webs, the safer everyone would be. John, being wonderful stubborn John, would not let it go. Plus his loyalty deserved to be paid back with the full truth.

Sherlock just didn’t know how to tell him. Didn’t even know where to start. Plus, he really didn’t want to get hit in the face again because he didn’t know how John would react when he told him the truth. That it was not exactly all doom and gloom during his exile from England. That bits of it had been actually... fun.

The mischievous glee he felt when he outwitted the enemy, staying two steps ahead. The rush he felt when he unraveled one of the King Spider’s webs was better than any high he had ever gotten from a line of coke or shot of morphine. The pure pleasure of indentifying one of the bastards who continued carrying out Moriarty’s plots and delivering him to justice. Of course, justice did not always mean the police. Sometimes it meant the old-fashioned Sicilian Mafia or the new-and-improved IRA… but behind bars or a bullet in their brains, it did not really concern Sherlock. As long as they were out of commission. Another threat neutralized.

He had tracked down the elusive Woman in Italy and stayed with her for six weeks. Once she realized he was not going to share her bed and would not tolerate being toyed with as she had done in London, Irene Adler turned out to be a valuable ally not to mention a witty and pleasant companion. Plus he had smoothly reminded her she owed him her life when he saved her from the Al-Qaeda and what was done could be just as easily undone. Obviously, when he put it like that she readily agreed to tow the line while he stayed with her.

Sherlock smiled as he opened the door in his mind palace to the room where he kept the memory of playing chess and drinking espresso with her all night on the balcony of her flat in Rome. She even beat him. Twice.

They had watched the sun rise over the ancient city. She had worn a simple white sundress, her black hair loose, her face free of cosmetics. She looked simply stunning, sitting there in the glow of a new day “Have you ever been in love?” she had asked completely out of the blue.

Sherlock had studied her intently before answering. Nothing in her body language suggested an attempt to manipulate him. Her breathing was quite steady. Deducing she was merely curious, he finally said “No.”

“Me either,” she had admitted. “Attractions, yes.” A light blush had appeared on her cheeks when she remembered how Sherlock beat her at her own game when he cracked her camera phone password. “Infatuations, sentimental attachments yes, most definitely. But love, no.”  She turned to look at him. “Is that a blessing or a curse?”

“Both,” he had finally said, after a very long silence.

“Both,” she had agreed, turning back to watch the new dawn warming the Eternal City below.

Sherlock shut the door on that particular memory. That he might still keep to himself. Associating with Irene would definitely be something John would categorize as Not Good plus it would be another faked death he hadn’t known about, which might inspire him to chin Sherlock again. Being hit in the face all the time was wearisome, such a mundane reaction. Plus, it hurt. A lot. John had a wicked right hook. And the head-butting…

True, it had not been holiday while he was gone. He didn’t stay in five star hotels but he hadn’t slept in gutters either. He had hid in plain sight in ending up in whatever country the work sent him, doing what he loved the most: observing and deducting. Liberated from his ludicrous name and his maligned reputation, he could do whatever he pleased without worry, without repercussions, without being called freak. There were actual long stretches of time during those two years where he was truly, blissfully, completely happy.

He didn’t know if John could possibly understand he stayed away longer than he planned because of the pure joy the anonymity brought him. That there had been moments of actual peace, that his mind had been calm, controlled, without drugs, without distractions.

That he seriously considered never coming back at all.

But then something would trigger homesickness, followed by a profound loneliness he never experienced before. Seeing an older woman in Amsterdam who resembled Mrs. Hudson. Watching the BBC at a hotel bar in Dublin and DI Lestrade would be a guest on Crimewatch. Stopping at a Starbucks in sunny Los Angeles for a coffee and hearing someone speaking with a British accent ordering a latte.

Always returning to an empty flat or hotel room.

Then he would cave and check John’s blog and smile as he read the unfailingly kind words of the friend he had “died” to save and would die over and over for. Or he’d check Molly’s Facebook page. He always knew when he was especially on her mind because she’d quote a poem in her status. Not silly, saccharine-sweet greeting card poetry either, but truly lovely poems from masters like John Keating or ee cummings. It was her code to him, letting him know she missed him. He didn’t always understand the sentiments behind the words, but he always appreciated the exquisite language. Then he would hate himself for feeling heartbroken because there was no way he could safely tell her he missed her too. Missed the sharp mind obscured by her soft voice and gentle nature. Missed her kindheartedness, her sweet shy smile, her humble heart. His polar opposite.

I don’t count…

Wrong he thought I’d really be in that grave if you didn’t count, Molly Hooper. He thought, recalling how one night he scrolled through her Facebook pictures, just to see familiar faces. He had found himself starting to write a comment then furiously hitting the back space button.

He also always had to physically stop himself from commenting on John’s blogs, actually power down the computer and take a walk. Chain-smoke until he knew he wouldn’t tell John he was alive. Smoke another pack until he knew he was not going to get on the first plane back to London.

Inevitably he’d have an altercation with one of the Moriarty’s men, which usually ended with him getting injured some way or other and was left to recuperate alone in a strange city where he didn’t know a soul. The time with the bruised ribs had been the worst and since he had been in America at the time, access to decent health care had been an utter nightmare.

Sherlock got his revenge on the perpetrator of that beating when he tipped off an American biker gang in Northern California regarding that particular fellow’s whereabouts. As that fellow had stolen quite a bit of cash plus some illegal automatic weapons from the gang, there wasn’t much left of him after the bikers were finished.

He might have stayed away forever if he hadn’t made a fateful trip to Stockholm shortly before he Rose from the Dead. He had been alerted about a very interesting young Swedish hacker who had come across some information which might be some value to him.

To his surprise and infinite delight, it was more than valuable information. It was priceless.

It meant he could go home.

He didn’t realize how much he had longed for home until he actually had a chance to go back.

Of course, that little unpleasant detour into Serbia had delayed his Rise for a bit…

A drowsy smile now crossed his lips. His head found his pillow and he found himself finally relaxing, his muscles loosening, his limbs uncoiling but his body still wrapped up in the duvet. John tried to hide his curiosity regarding what he did with the sizeable sum he won in the lawsuit against Kitty Riley and the tabloids she had worked for, but his desire to know was painfully obvious. While John’s deductive powers had grown in leaps and bounds throughout the years, he still made the mistake of looking at the trees when he should have been looking at the forest.

Sherlock bought Baker Street. Not just the flat, the entire building.

He paid Mrs. Hudson a handsome salary to continue as official landlady and unofficial housekeeper with strict orders not to disclose to anyone regarding his purchase. He had decided when she felt like retiring he would ensure she would have a decent pension to enjoy for the rest of her days. He hadn’t told her that bit yet. The noisy sobs she had burst into when he told her of his wish to purchase the building and the salary he would give her to stay on had made him incredibly uncomfortable. He’d rather not have to deal with another messy emotional scene anytime soon.

That was another reason was why he put John off again tonight and also why he bought Baker Street. He needed normal. Or at least, normal for him. That meant no emotional outbursts, no tedious heart-to-hearts. Since he couldn’t run away anymore, bounce from city to city when the need and mood struck him, since he had to be Sherlock Holmes again, he needed some stability. He needed his work and he needed his flat.

He knew he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; he resented John for pointing that out… again. There had been bits of his Great Hiatus that had been exhilarating, but then there were the bits that had nearly driven him to the very brink of madness.

His eyes fluttered open, sleep slipped away from him again. John talked about healing soldiers only to be torn apart again. Sherlock wondered if John had ever witnessed someone being tortured, had been present at a water-boarding or electrocution or burned by cigarettes or seen all the other imaginative ways human beings thought of to inflict pain on their own kind. Sherlock tugged the duvet over his head and willfully ignored the beckoning doors to the dungeons of his mind palace, where the true horrors lie, the things he had witnessed during those two years, the things he had to allow to happen in order to achieve his objective: to kill Moriarty completely. Not just his body, but his businesses, his fronts, his illegal operations, his reputation. Draw out the poison; destroy the threat completely to John, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade that his actions, his deductions and his arrogance unwittingly created nearly six years ago when he and John arrived at a crime scene to examine a dead woman in a pink dress.

But he hadn’t been able to completely eliminate the threat. The organization was in complete disarray but not dismantled. If I only had more time, if I hadn’t gone back to England after I had gotten that memory stick from the Swedish hacker, maybe if I had stayed away one more year... but that had become an impossibility, time had run out. Mycroft had tracked him down. Or maybe he knew the entire time where he was and decided now was the time to pull the leash. Plus there had been rumblings that all was not well in London. John. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Their safety was no longer secured by his demise.

Time to return what was left of his old life.

He had felt unbearably lonely and painfully exhausted by that point in his exile anyway so it was just as well he was found and summoned back. Even though he only admitted that to himself, he hated how weak it made him feel. How difficult it was becoming to detach emotionally. How risky it was when fatigue and guilt clouded his intellect.

So, after getting everything sorted out once he Rose from the Dead (not to mention containing aftermath after the chaos caused by Charles Augustus Magnussen), stability and normalcy was critical. After two years on the run, Sherlock always insisted on returning to Baker Street, even when it was impractical. Like tonight.

It was home.

Being surrounded by familiar things, the awful wallpaper, the dreadful red rugs, the mismatched furniture, his books, his computer, his violin, they all comforted him, calmed him when his thoughts sped like cars on the Autobahn. Plus with Mycroft’s surveillance combined with the information he received in Sweden, the building was one of the safest places in the entire city.

No one would find the memory stick here, just like they’d never find the small stash of drugs he also kept in the flat. For just in case. Insurance.

Insurance… was the building blown up today in order to collect the benefits from the insurance policy? Possibly, although… arson, ugh dull.  Still, logical. The surgery was not in a posh part of the city, it catered specifically to the poor therefore not as profitable as say the surgery John works out of where the building owner can charge a higher rent because the surgery can afford to pay. Tomorrow, ask John to a little digging. Find out the owner. Ask questions… amazing about John, how much he has learned to observe these past few years… truly impressive … never really considered that deductive reasoning could be learned. Or taught.… hmm…

His eyelids drooped, his breathing started to even out. Maybe this time he would experience dreamless sleep… at least for a few hours. At least his neck didn’t itch anymore. 

By the way John, he thought as he drifted off I chucked out Nelson so Mrs. Hudson would win the pool this week.  

**

13 March 2015
John and Mary’s residence
Friday morning
4:59 AM

The door bell jolted both Mary and John awake. John fumbled for his mobile to check the time. Five o’clock in the morning. “Shit…” he clumsily put the phone back on the nightstand as he let his head drop down into his pillow.

Next to him Mary murmured “You promised…”

John rolled over and propped his head on his hand. “I know, I know. I’m trying Mary, I’m really trying to – “ the door bell rang again “- make him understand how normal people function and believe me, this is a vast improvement from four years ago. Four years ago, he probably would have just broken in.”

 “That’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking?”

The door bell chimed again. “John,” Mary said, sitting up. “I know he’s your best friend and I know he’s going through some sort of rough patch right now. I’m not heartless. I don’t want him slipping away again either but there is going to be a time where you are going to have to choose between me and Sherlock.”

“Mary-” wounded, John reached for her but she had already gotten out of bed as the door bell rang again. “I would never-“

“Not on purpose, I know,” she said, tying her pink dressing gown around her waist. “But he’ll force the issue. Not on purpose. But sooner or later, it will happen,” she looked away from him. “You know how he feels about me… and deservedly so.”

“Yes and we agreed that was water under the bridge, didn’t we? All three of us?” It was the first time since Moriarty’s return that the subject of Mary shooting Sherlock point-blank in the chest had been broached. “And you know what my answer would be if he did force the issue, wouldn’t you?” John said hastily, swinging his legs out of bed, shoveling his feet into slippers.

Mary slowly raised her head. “Do I?”

“Oh come now,” John stood up, irritated at both Mary and Sherlock. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said “but an ordinary woman can’t compete with an extraordinary man.”

Feeling his temper rising, John snapped “I think we can all agree you are not ordinary. And there is no competition”- the door bell again “- Oh God damn it.”

Mary crossed her arms and frowned. “Go answer the door. He’s not going to leave until you do.” As John stormed past her she added “Just think about what is going to happen the day he going to want to bring you down a path you can’t go.”   

John paused at the bedroom door; hand on doorknob “That day already happened nearly three years ago,” his voice was deadly quiet. “And then again last summer, didn’t it?”

Mary’s face twisted in rage. She barely contained it. “I thought that was ‘water under the bridge’ John,” she said in a very controlled voice.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair,” John tried to approach Mary but the door bell rang again. Really, it was like a child discovering the door bell button for the first time. “This isn’t over,” he said tersely.

“It’s never over, John,” she said as he turned from her and stormed out of the room.

When he threw open the door, John noticed Sherlock wasn’t wearing his usual long coat but rather a jet-black pea coat. The color made his already pale face look chalky. The blue-and-violet checked scarf was missing as well. But his eyes glowed, bright and eager, like a cat that just spotted an oblivious mouse. His “The Game is On” face.

Bloody wonderful.

John said “This better be important.”

“Obviously it’s important,” Sherlock said, walking inside before John could invite him in. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“Because I was sleeping Sherlock, it’s barely five o’clock! We’ve talked about this. You can’t just drop by unannounced at any hour. My wife is going to murder the pair of us.”

“Poor choice of words, John.”

“Get to the point, Sherlock,” John bridled.

“Mary will forgive my lapse in etiquette once she realizes our culprit has a pattern of targeting the poor,” Sherlock pulled out his Smartphone and tapped an app on his phone. “Lestrade is awfully fond of the gas leak excuse. After I persuaded him to allow me to examine some older cases-

“You mean you nagged until he gave in,” John corrected him.

“Semantics, boring,” Sherlock showed John a map of London and its surrounding cities. “When the DI provided me access to the necessary records, I was able to widen the search to other cities outside of London. Then it was easy to detect a pattern of destruction within the last eighteen months.” He turned the mobile around, tapped ‘Luton’ on the map, waited for it to expand and handed the Smartphone back to John for examination.  “For example three similar explosions in Luton in the past six months, all small abandoned factory buildings,” he now purred like the cat that ate the oblivious mouse “for auto or airplane accessories.”

“And nobody noticed?”

“The causes were always written off as arson they were all investigated by incompetent local law enforcement. Also not much priority was given to the crimes as the damaged buildings were mostly condemned commercial buildings where the homeless sought shelter and dealers peddled their wares. Or they were facilities dedicated to caring for the poor, shelters, rehabs-“

“Surgeries,” John said, becoming interested, invested, despite himself and despite his very angry wife upstairs “In destitute areas where the residents may not own vehicles or can afford cabs to get to a proper hospital. But why?”

“It’s some sort of message,” Sherlock said “And I think I know who the message is intended for and what the message is, but the true mystery is the why.”

“The who and the what?”

“All these buildings had different owners and different insurers. However, because many of them had the same reinsurers.”

“Had… what?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Sherlock checked his watch. “Come now, get dressed. The meter is still running.”

John would not have blamed the poor cabbie for giving up and driving away. “Sherlock, I can’t just… I’m going to get sacked if I keep sloughing off my duties at the surgery.”

Sherlock smiled slyly “Oh John, truly would that be a terrible thing?”

“Not for you,” John was not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction that, once again, he was right. “I need to be at the clinic at nine o’clock sharp.”

“Not a problem,” Sherlock said. “The insurance office is unlocked at seven.”

***

The bitter morning air promised another unusually chilly day for that time of the year, but at least it wasn’t raining. Spring certainly taking her sweet time coming around, John griped to himself. Glad he wore his warm winter coat and thick socks, John walked beside Sherlock down in the heart of the City of London, the city-within-a-city, home of the Financial District as well as St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Old Bailey. Less tourists, but more yuppies.

“So,” John said, clutching his cup of piping hot coffee as if it was the Holy Grail, “tell me more about this reinsurance.”

“It’s dull,” Sherlock said, shivering just slightly, flipping his collar up in deference to the cold, not to look “cool”. The substitute coat not only made him look like Death, but apparently didn’t do much for warmth either. John then saw he was wearing his usual dress slacks instead of something sensible like jeans. Without his long coat and scarf, he had to be chilled to the bone.

If he was, however, he didn’t show it. Much. “Reinsurance is insurance purchased by an insurance company. When a policy benefit is massive, for an example a policy worth millions of pounds to cover catastrophic damage on a factory or a block of buildings held by the same owner, if said catastrophic event occurs and the insurance company now has to pay millions to the policy holder, well the insurance company could potentially go under, couldn’t it?”

“So,” John said, struggling to understand. “The insurance company sells the policy in order to provide security to their customer… and then the reinsurance sells the original insurance company a policy to essentially… well, cover the original insurance company’s arse if a claim is actually filed?”

“Simplistic, but yes,” Sherlock said. “There are a multitude of rules and regulations regarding filing and underwriting, but I won’t bore you. On a positive note, one you will be pleased with, I have found a cure to my insomnia. I tried studying up on the business last night and ended up falling asleep face first into the keyboard of my laptop.”

“And yet, you were up with the chickens this morning,” John pointed out, still put out. One of the reasons he accepted the post at the surgery were the hours – nine o’clock in the morning to four-thirty at night. Lunches he had to work through when there was a crush in the waiting room and sometimes it was more like five-thirty, six o’clock after he finished seeing his last patient, but it was worth it to not have to see the sun rise first thing in the morning. Especially when your best friend was slightly mad and insisted on nocturnal adventures when the Game Was On.

“I fell asleep at eight o’clock last night,” Sherlock said but did not add he woke up at midnight when he dreamed Moriarty slit John’s throat instead of shooting him, another new gory twist to the old nightmares. He also didn’t bother to tell John he dozed off again when he started reading about insurance law, but it was only an uneasy fugue state where half-remembered horrors denied him the deep refreshing rest he craved, no, needed. The dungeon doors in his mind palace were not staying locked nor were the doors staying shut.

All the monsters wanted to come out to play. 

He didn’t believe he was lying to John though; insurance law was mind-numbingly dull and he did fall asleep due to sheer boredom. He did consider the four hours of sleep he got last night a major victory.  But he still wished it was possible to ask John for a prescription for something, just to take the edge off at nights, to keep the dreams at bay. He knew how that conversation would go though: John would say no and insist he go see a shrink, try the talking cure.

Yes, because that did wonders for me in my childhood he thought, and then instantly wondering why he thought that. His childhood was not something he dwelled on much.

Tried to delete, actually.

No, the dungeon door locks were not holding at all. That was a real problem.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock roused himself out of his reverie. Fortunately John was used to his long lapses of silence as well as his frenetic bursts of speech so he did not act like Sherlock’s sudden quiet demeanor was odd. John just thought he was pondering over something as usual.

Which he had been, just not the case.

“All the damaged buildings at the unconfirmed bomb sites had different owners and difference insurance companies, but all those insurance companies used the same reinsurance company, GBF Holdings, UK. Of course we can’t speak to anyone at GBF and rightly so, it would be pointless. It’s a conglomerate of paper pushers that doesn’t know what the right hand is doing from the left. They wouldn’t see the pattern. No, the logical course of action is to speak to the brokerage firm that sells the reinsurance business to the other insurance companies.”

“We’re going to talk to an insurance agent?” John asked “Couldn’t we have done that over the phone? In the afternoon? After lunch?”

“You can only deduct so much through sound,” Sherlock checked his watch and quickened his step. “Come on,” he said, hastening to a bus stop.

The City was still relatively quiet, or as quiet as it could possibly get. However, the workers of the world were starting to migrate to their occupations. To the average eye, John and Sherlock just looked like average commuters, waiting for their average connecting bus. Then John could have hit himself for his stupidity Sherlock’s not wearing a different coat because his usual one is still at the cleaner… he’s blending in. The Coat, his Coat is, well, too Sherlockian. Hiding in plain sight, he is. Without the Coat and the stupid Deerstalker hat, he’s just some skinny pale bloke on his way to work. I’m the one who sticks out… no, I’m blending in too… I don’t look like a doctor in this heavy coat and these boots, too casual of an outfit and no white lab jacket or scrubs. I look like one of the wage slaves, on my way to some crap customer service job in one of the corporate buildings. Well played Sherlock. “We’re not waiting for a bus, are we?” 

“No,” Sherlock said softly, looking to his left. “There she comes.”  John tried to be as casual as possible when he looked to his left as well. Sherlock said “Please don’t. You’ll just embarrass both of us. Just look straight ahead, she’ll stop at the building across the street.”

John stifled a sigh and an urge to smack his friend but followed his order. But soon, he saw a woman pedaling an older Pronto work bicycle towards the building Sherlock told him to keep his eyes on. John started studying her, knowing if Sherlock told him to watch for her, he was expected to observe her. Every detail of her. Because Sherlock would demand a report.

She wore a slouchy white knitted hat over her reddish-brown hair, a matching scarf around her neck, a heavy navy blue pea coat, designed for warmth, unlike the black thing Sherlock was now shivering to death in. She wore black gloves and sunglasses, which seemed silly at first since it was barely morning but then John realized that coming from the west, the rising sun would be in her eyes. Skinny black jeans neatly tucked into a pair of knee-high brown riding boots. From a distance, she appeared to be an attractive woman.

There was a basket in the front of the bicycle, which appeared to hold a black leather messenger bag and her handbag. John couldn’t tell what else was in the basket at first, but figured he would once she stopped and started taking her things out.

She braked and swung a long leg over the bicycle as if she was a jockey dismounting from a prizewinning racehorse. Every motion of hers had a regal grace, even when she knelt to secure the bike to the racks with the chain.

“Well?” Sherlock said under his breath. Other commuters had started milling around the bus stop. None of them seem to realize they were in the presence of the Great Consulting Detective and his Blogger. “Proceed,” he glanced at the other people standing nearby, “Quietly.”    

Lately Sherlock had been really pushing him to improve his observation skills, making John feel simultaneously flattered and annoyed. “Well, she’s tall,” he started. He could practically hear Sherlock’s eyes roll. He tried to do better. He watched her take her handbag, messenger bag and high heeled pumps out of the bike’s basket in front. “Um, okay, she bikes to work so she’s probably environmentally conscious? So if she bikes to work she lives nearby as well? She wears sunglasses not to look cool but because the sun’s in her eyes when she comes to work in the morning. Oh! She’s got fancy heels in that basket too… so she’s practical. Doesn’t wear her good shoes when she’s biking to work but she’s wearing boots today because it’s bloody cold. And… well she’s not an executive because they would either drive or take a taxi, green or not because executives have to worry about image? So she’s some sort of an assistant?”

“Very good,” Sherlock said, sounding genuinely pleased. Before John could bask in the glow of his compliment, Sherlock added “Now let me tell you everything important you missed.”

“Oh please do,” sarcasm oozed out of John’s voice as the chestnut-haired woman took out an ID badge from her coat pocket and swiped it through a card scanner.

As she disappeared inside the building, Sherlock said “You were absolutely correct when you said she lives nearby, but she’s not some tree-hugger. She doesn’t own a car. No point, not when you work and live in the City. Also, she’s not environmental-conscious, she’s health-conscious. She’s pedaling a bike intended for use at industrial sites which leads me to believe she didn’t start in the typing pool but as some sort of courier or messenger. She doesn’t ride a bicycle because it’s trendy or she’s about saving the earth. If that was the case, she would be riding around something newer and lighter weight and probably wouldn’t own a leather valise or wear a wool coat. She rides a bike to save money and for endurance training. You observed she was tall, I observed by the musculature in her legs she is very strong. She wears a thick, well-worn coat and flat-heeled boots. She is practical, especially since she rides in all weather, save the absolute worst storm possible. As you noted, she brought along a pair of high heels, expensive high heels, did you not see the red soles? Louboutins or very good knockoffs. Judging by how carefully she handled her shoes (but how careless she was with her handbag) I would hazard to guess she also has a business suit or skirt in that messenger bag. Because denim trousers are too causal for an office like this, no matter how fashionable they are. She’s not just a personal assistant John, oh no, she’s The Assistant. She’s the one who knows absolutely everything that is going on in that agency and you are going to chat her up later tonight, after we met with her boss, Robert Carruthers this afternoon.”

“Sorry?”

“You heard me, I’m not repeating myself. Why do you do that, do you think I’m going to suddenly say the opposite what I just said if you ask me to repeat myself? Since when have reverse psychology ever worked on me?”

“I can’t chat up a strange woman!” John cried out. A few commuters looked at him strangely but then resumed scrolling through their Smartphones or sipping their coffees.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, brusque as usual.

“Yeah, big problem! I’m. Married.”

Sherlock shook his head in exasperation. “Did I ask you to shag her? No. I asked you to talk to her. Ask her for a pint or for a coffee after work. You need to isolate her and gain her trust outside of her office because she will not volunteer a single word when we interview her boss this afternoon.”

“Sorry – this afternoon?”

“You’re doing it again.” Sherlock stood up. “One o’clock. We have an appointment with Mr. Carruthers, who said he is absolutely delighted to assist us. He’s lying, of course, but as to why, that is what we must discover so no more orphans and old ladies get blown to bits as I believe the message is being sent to him. Be here by 12:45 if convenient.”

“It’s not convenient.  But you really think this Carruthers is the reason for all these bombings?”

“He is definitely a piece in the puzzle as he is the one who brokered all these deals with the insurance companies and building owners. And Miss Smith is a piece as well.”

“Miss Smith?”

“Miss Violet Smith, our solitary cyclist,” Sherlock nodded towards the building. “She handles the books and the filings as well as Mr. Carruthers’ diary. Who knows what she might have read. Oh and she leaves the office at six sharp, except when she works late, but even then she leaves no later than nine o’clock, so do be on time to accidentally run into her, will you?”

“I’m going to end up divorced before this is all said and done and if you ask me if that would be a terrible thing, yes it would, it really would.”

But Sherlock, seeing the bus approaching said “It’s just a drink, John. Tell her you want to apologize for me being rude.”

“Oh great, so you plan on being rude,” John said as the bus pulled up to the stop and let the commuters out. “Fantastic. Good to know.”

“I don’t plan on being rude,” Sherlock stood up and put his hands in his coat pocket, “I plan on being myself.”

“That actually could be worse than rude,” John said “Much worse.”

“That bus will take you directly to your surgery,” Sherlock ignored the jibe. “I wouldn’t dawdle; you can catch up on your paperwork before the doors open at nine. Oh, and finally,” he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. “She wears the sunglasses because she doesn’t want to be recognized,” He walked away.

“Unbelievable,” John said as he climbed on board the bus.

He knew he would be back here at one. And six.  

***
It was a minor miracle John was able to slip away from work without anyone raising a fuss. Naturally Sherlock did not appreciate that fact at all. He was waiting for John at the same bus stop they had observed Miss Smith from earlier that day. Only Sherlock must have gone back to Baker Street because he was wearing His Coat and His Scarf. And Sherlock’s idea of waiting was laying flat on his back on the bus stop bench, hands neatly folded together as if in prayer. People were definitely staring. And taking pictures with their mobiles.

“Don’t you dare complain if the paparazzi are waiting for us when we leave here,” John said, hovering over Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his eyes, the penetrating, all-perceiving eyes which changed colors from blue to green or gold, depending on the lighting or his latest mood swing. “You’re late.”

John checked his watch. “It’s 12:55. The meeting’s at one, I-“ but Sherlock had already sprang up from the bench and started to cross the busy intersection, towards the unimpressive glass building that housed Carruthers Brokerage Firm. “-got here as quick as I could,” John shouted as he hurried after Sherlock, trying not to get run down. The City hummed and buzzed as a hive of financial industry should. Traffic was appalling and people were everywhere, on bikes or walking, on their mobiles, chatting, texting and not paying attention to anything but their own small worlds.

Sherlock would think their lives were boring, meaningless. John just hoped he wouldn’t have to save someone’s boring life if they got hit by a car while reading a stupid text.

Apparently the lobby doors were only locked very early in the morning because Sherlock pulled open the doors and walked right in. He strode up to the front desk where a very young lady sat, trying to look professional, but only looked bored. She perked up when she saw Sherlock and John approach. “Oh my God, you’re never really… you’re so much taller in real life!”

“He wears high heels,” John said, still out of sorts.

Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he scowled down at his shorter friend. “Please let Mr. Robert Carruthers know his one o’clock appointment is here, won’t you?” he grumbled at the girl.  

“Oh, of course,” the girl said, giving Sherlock a alluring smile and shifted in her seat, arching her back just so slightly, just so provocatively, which he ignored.

Oh honestly, John thought, exasperated, if girls had fallen over themselves for me like that when I was unattached, I’d be having a bit of fun. Married to his work still, after everything that has happened. Would it kill him to meet a girl? Or boy? Whatever, just somebody. Even if it wasn’t serious, just to blow off steam, instead of blowing things up in his flat?

A darker fear slinked into his thoughts What is he going to do when Mary and I start trying for a baby again and all of This has to stop? He can’t be alone, not after the Fall and Rise, but I can’t continue being responsible for him. Not if I become responsible for a child of my own…

Before John’s thoughts could spiral out of control, the lift doors opened and Miss Violet Smith walked out. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” she said, approaching them. Even though she now wore eyeglasses instead of sunglasses, John noticed how her welcoming smile did not reach her eyes. Brrr… he thought. Chilly, this one…

“My name is Violet Smith. Welcome. This way please.”

Her voice was melodic, fluid. Inches from her now, John saw she was a well-groomed, elegant lady. Sherlock, of course, had been right. Instead of the jeans and boots she now wore a smart, knee length skirt with a matching blazer as well as the expensive shoes, which made her taller than she had appeared in the street. She towered over John at any rate. Still, determined to observe as much as possible, John tried to discreetly study her as they made idle chatter as she swiped her access card and pressed the button to her office floor.

It was hard to guess her age. She could have been twenty-five or forty-five. Her make-up was flawless. Her jewelry was simple and tasteful, silver hoops in her ears, a simple silver pendant on a dainty silver chain around her neck, a simple gold wristwatch. No wedding or engagement ring though. Her chestnut hair, sleek and straight, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. She made the polite mundane chitchat one does in a lift on the way to a meeting but she didn’t drone on and on nor did she pry into their business. Her dialogue stayed along the lines of Oh isn’t the weather dreadful? and Did you find the building alright? and Do we need to validate your parking, oh, you took the bus, very good.

What made John distinctly nervous was how she directed the flow of conversation towards him alone and the silence Sherlock maintained. She was purposely not engaging the detective. And the detective just leaned back in the corner of the lift, watching, listening, detecting, deducting, playing… giving her just enough rope to hang herself.

What are you seeing that I am not? John wondered, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes. Sherlock did not broadcast his thoughts, of course. He looked uninterested as he watched Miss Smith and John banter back and forth. But John knew Sherlock was hanging on every word exchanged between him and the Assistant.

As the lift doors slid open, Miss Smith stood aside to let the men out but Sherlock deferred “Ladies first,” he said silkily, his voice dropping an octave, giving her a devastating smile that would have melted the knickers off the silly desk girl downstairs.

John stifled a laugh. He had always suspected Sherlock wasn’t oblivious to his effect on the opposite sex (and some of the same sex). He could turn on the charisma when necessary. He just truly wasn’t interested in any of it. The relationships. The intimacy. To him, it was… messy.

Ah you don’t know what you’re missing, mate, John thought. Sometimes messy is the best bit.  

Miss Smith, however, seemed immune to his charms. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, walking out of the lift, checking her watch, not looking at him once. “Nice to see chivalry is not yet dead.” There was a slight touch of condescension in her voice as she walked ahead of them, leading them through a fairly small but thoroughly modern office space.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, pretending not to notice her sarcasm. Taking one long-legged step in order to walk beside her again, he said. “That’s a lovely necklace you’re wearing.”

“Thank you,” her hand fluttered towards it but she did not look down at it or up at Sherlock.

“I have a friend who would really like something similar to that, it’s her birthday next week and I can never get the just right gift for her… where did you purchase that, if I may ask?”

“Oh, some shop in Soho, I don’t know, it was ages ago,” she said dismissively, eyes straight ahead. As they walked through the office, John observed once again her regal posture as she led them towards Carruthers’ office. She really was Queen of this small kingdom. How’m I going to chat up a woman like this? John moaned privately to himself. Sherlock, you better do something completely obnoxious so I can apologize for your behavior instead of trying to flirt, which I don’t enjoy anymore. Not really. Only with Mary… who still might murder me yet tonight.

But Sherlock, miracle of miracles, actually minded his manners. Oh no, John thought as they walked through the office. No, he hasn’t suddenly mastered politeness. He’s acting. He’s planning on blindsiding the lady and her boss with some brilliant deduction that will undoubtedly offend them on every level. Oh lord, I hope the pair of them are not having an affair, he’ll announce it in front of the entire office, John cringed, remembering his very first meeting with Sally Donovan, when Sherlock broadcasted for everyone within hearing distance why the knees of her slacks were worn and why her deodorant and Anderson’s smelled similar.

Donovan had not been pleased with Sherlock’s Rise.

Anderson, well, word had it he had gone around the bend.

Sherlock please please do not bring up Carruthers’ and Smith’s personal lives, John mentally begged his friend. Whatever you are plotting, just… don’t. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned and I do NOT want to try and smooth-talk a pissed off lady.  

John knew telepathy was not one of Sherlock’s gifts so he devoutly hoped Sherlock would just observe his distress and act accordingly.

As they walked through the office, a few people had peeped over cubicle walls, staring. A sharp look from Miss Smith over her glasses frames sent them quickly sitting down again. A few people said hello politely as they passed them, but there was no sound of pointless chitchat, no one standing about drinking coffee, gabbing about weekend plans. Most of the people were absorbed at their tasks, either typing on computers or talking on the telephones. There were a few walking about with files and sheaves of papers.

However, not a single employee wore that look of utter despair many corporate drones wore. Miss Smith ran a tight ship, but not unmercifully so. The staff seemed genuinely friendly in their greetings to her but had continued walking towards their desks instead of stopping to gossip. But when Miss Smith said Hello and Good Morning to her staff as they passed by, only then her smile actually reached her eyes.

John again wondered what Sherlock saw, what minutiae detail John missed, because to John, the staff respected her possibly even admired her. He felt sick If she is screwing around with the boss and Sherlock announces that tidbit for all to hear, she’ll murder him. Not because her sex life was exposed, but because she would lose face in this office… but she doesn’t seem to be the type to get to the top by being on the bottom. She’s going to be a tough nut to crack.

Sherlock, his eyes flicking from cubical to cubical as they walked down the aisle, took his mobile out of his coat pocket, as if it had just vibrated. Since John walked behind Sherlock and Miss Smith, it looked to him Sherlock was only pretending to read something on the mobile screen. Only pretending not to see a homely office clerk, with an armful of computer print-outs, but it was completely real when he bumped into her, causing papers to fly everywhere.

“Oh I apologize,” Sherlock said, still play-acting Ever So Polite. Kneeling down next to the harried employee he said, “Let me help you, it’s the least I can do…” as he snatched up papers

Only John knew how fast Sherlock could read. And memorize.

But Miss Smith looked at her pretty gold wristwatch and said “While your assistance is appreciated, Mr. Carruthers is on a strict time-table today and I must-“ She knelt down and snatched the papers out of Sherlock’s hands. “-insist we continue. Olivia can manage, yes?” She thrust the papers at Olivia, who really was a plump, mousy thing, poor girl.

“Um, yes Miss Smith,” Olivia squeaked, looking a bit awestruck that the Great Sherlock Holmes had bumped into her and was actually being nice to her.

“Good,” Miss Smith rose gracefully as did Sherlock. She gave Olivia a Look and the poor mouse stopped gawping at Sherlock and John and commenced picking up the scattered paper.

Miss Smith made a sweeping gesture with her hand and also gave Sherlock and John a sharp Look that John interpreted as: I Have Better Things to Do than Escort the Pair of You So Let’s Get a Move-on, Shall We?

Both John and Sherlock acquiesced, but John caught the look Sherlock gave the unobservant Olivia as they walked past her while the poor girl, still on her knees, hurriedly picking up the papers Sherlock “accidentally” knocked out of her hands.

For half-a-second, the detective wore the smug expression of a satisfied cat that had canary for lunch and mouse for dessert. Then it was gone. Only John, who had known him for years, would have noticed it.

Sherlock tested Miss Smith’s patience again when he paused next to a cubicle to tie his shoe, but to be fair, the laces had come undone. Even John knew that was the real reason he needed to stop. “Apologies,” he said again, cheerfully, when he stood up.

Miss Smith smiled a tight smile as she turned her back on them. The Queen has had enough of own shenanigans, thankyouverymuch and will nothing more to say to either one of us. John thought. Both men meekly (or at least Sherlock appeared to be meek) followed her to their destination, which, to John’s surprise, was a meeting room instead of Carruthers’ office.

Miss Smith opened the door and stood aside to let John and Sherlock in. Robert Carruthers sat at the board table, writing notes while reading a text on his Smartphone, but he stood up when Miss Smith said “Your one o’clock, Mr. Carruthers. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

“Come in,” Mr. Carruthers said, standing up. First thing both John and Sherlock noticed was his lack of an English accent. “Canadian,” he said, by way of explanation, apparently used to having to explain he was a North American but not an American. God forbid. He gave his brief life history as he walked to the two men “Grew up in a small town near Winnipeg. Studied aboard my senior year of college here in London. Fell in love with the city, then with an English girl and well,” he shrugged, reaching Sherlock to shake his hand. “Here I am.” He wrung Sherlock’s hand heartily.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, extraditing his hand from Carruthers’ as quickly as possible. “Here. You. Are.” Every word was clipped, every vowel rounded, every consonant enunciated.

As Carruthers shook John’s hand, Sherlock stepped back and observed how very big he was. Tall and broad shouldered. Taller than Sherlock but not slender like him. Not fat either. Very fit. He seemed like an American stereotype, a Marlboro man, a cowboy. Or a lumberjack, which would be more apt since he was Canadian…

Said he was Canadian Sherlock knit his brows as he finished his assessment, lightning-fast.

Brown hair starting to go to salt-and-pepper, neatly barbered. Brown goatee, also graying, also neatly trimmed. Brown eyes, surrounded by crow’s feet. Early fifties. Expensive suit, but not ostentatious. Same with the wrist watch.  Polished shoes. Shirt neatly pressed. Cuff links, shining. Everything was precise, everything was properly creased, no wedding ring, no tan line to indicate a ring had been on that particular finger recently yet everything was precise.

Ex-military, Sherlock concluded as Carruthers pointed at the seats to John and him. And what happened to this English girl you supposedly Fell In Love With, which, what a nauseating, uncreative lie. Honestly, this is why I don’t eat much on cases, there’s always a chance it could come back up. To be fair, he didn’t say he married her, but if a girl is the reason why you left your native country not to mention friends and family, it’s a bit of a stretch to believe you didn’t marry her. Plus, wouldn’t it be easier to stay in Britain if one married to a British subject rather than just cohabitation and having to renew your work visa over and over? Will he be stupid enough to say she jilted him when I quiz him about the Love of his Life? That would an idiotic lie; a jilted man would not stay in a foreign country. No, when I press him about his English Girl, he’ll tell me a very sad story about how she died. Either of cancer or car crash. Boring…    

“Is there anything I can get you before I take my leave?” Miss Smith asked, standing in the doorway. “Coffee? Tea?”

Miss Smith has not made eye contact with me once. Other than that dig about chivalry (which seemed to come out of her mouth despite herself), she has purposely not attempted any conversation with me beyond what courtesy dictates. She chatted with John, but turned her back to me on the lift and then again after I knocked the spreadsheets out of her employee’s hands. Miss Smith is completely threatened by me. Interesting… Meanwhile Carruthers is trying to act like he is John’s and my new best friend. Boring…

But that’s no trendy necklace you’re wearing Miss Smith, it’s a dog whistle… interesting…

“I have no objections to Miss Smith staying,” Sherlock said, bowing his head, eyes closed, crossing his arms. Don’t mind me. I’m just an eccentric detective. I’m slightly mad, but harmless, really. Talk at my blogger, my translator. John is friendly, John is kind, John is non-threatening, John won’t ask anything intrusive, won’t reveal his true thoughts… He lowered his head, as if he was about to fall asleep at the table.

While you two frauds talk with John I will obtain everything I need from your actions and reactions. It’s already telling that we’re meeting in a conference room instead of your office. Too threatening to have someone like me somewhere where your personal effects are displayed… personal effects or lack of personal effects that would expose you both for the frauds you are.

“Miss Smith, if you don’t have any immediate fires to put out?” Carruthers asked.

“Of course not,” she said, trying to give her employer a genuine smile, one that showed teeth, but again, her eyes betrayed her utter un-enthusiasm for this situation. Through his eyelashes, Sherlock watched her stride around the table and sit at Carruthers right hand, across from John. She smoothed her skirt as she sat down. She folded her hands neatly on top of the table. Her back did not touch the back of the chair. Her posture was imperial. This one could give Queen Elizabeth II a run for her money for impeccable and magnanimous manners. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile of his own. Oh my dear Miss Smith, if that is even your real name… you just gave yourself away.

John, meanwhile, completely unaware what ran through Sherlock’s head, awkwardly started the dialog “Um, right, well, first. Thank you. For taking time out of your busy day to meet with us.”

Perfect John, just perfect, Sherlock thought, consciously hiding any signs of pleasure. Lure them in with your wholesomeness, your ordinariness.   

“Well, it’s a bad deal for everyone involved,” Carruthers said, nodding in sympathy.

“Yes, it’s very sad. Most of the victims from the last explosion were kids,” John said “Which is why we were hoping you might have any insight as why these locations were targeted.”

“I wish I did,” Carruthers said regretfully. “Frankly I was shocked when Miss Smith,” he nodded his head towards the lady to his right “Told me Mr. Holmes discovered a connection regarding one of our reinsurers and the blown-up properties…”

Sherlock tuned out part of the conversation because he knew it was a load of codswallop and not worth listening for the time being. He covertly watched Carruthers and Miss Smith.

Not having an affair, nothing in her body language indicates she’s sexually attracted to him. His body language… not sexual either. Protective, definitely. She’s on the right hand side, but he’s blocking her slightly, put himself in between her and John. He is on the edge of his seat, as if readying himself to tackle John if he makes a hostile move towards her. Like a defensive brother… no, father. She’s his protégé. But to what? She, on the other hand, is extremely uncomfortable. Excellent facial control and posture. Practices yoga, very conscious of controlling her core muscles. Also she is practicing pranayama right now, calming breathing to ease her anxiety. However she keeps her hands tightly clasped together to keep from fidgeting. She keeps subtly checking the time on Carruthers’ phone. She is dying to be out of here… no. She is dying to get me and John out of here. Or rather, just me. Very interesting. Have you done your research Miss Smith?

“… I really couldn’t tell you,” Carruthers was finishing telling John. “We broker so many deals with so many different companies. I honestly couldn’t tell you if there was one person who had a problem with GBF Holdings, UK. Or our firm. I am sorry though,” he sounded sincere. “I wish I had more information to give you. Now that you have made us aware of this unfortunate coincidence, we plan on cooperating fully with the authorities. We want this person behind bars just as much as you do.”

“Why,” Sherlock said, not moving “did you assume it was only one person that is the culprit?”

“Oh, well,” flustered Carruthers. “You know, we hope it’s only one person, right?”

Sherlock saw Miss Smith fold her lips tightly together. She knew he had slipped up before Sherlock even pointed it out. As John and Carruthers had spoken, Miss Smith had become icier and icier. Amazing how one person could lower the temperature of a room without uttering one word, without moving a centimeter. Sherlock realized this is how she kept her employees under control. She didn’t scorch the earth when she was displeased. She froze it out. Sherlock silently congratulated her on her discipline and self-control. Ex-military as well? he thought. No… scratch that… military upbringing. One of her parents was in service but she did not enlist…

“One person is easier to defeat than an entire gang or army,” Miss Smith said coolly. “Wouldn’t you agree Mr. Holmes?”

Oho, a personal attack. Insinuating I was too incompetent to take down Moriarty’s entire web on my own. Insulting my intelligence without actually calling me stupid. Very well, Miss Smith. Finally you made your opening move. “Oh I don’t know,” he said airily, suddenly stretching then getting up, graceful as a dancer.

Meanwhile, John suppressed a groan Here comes the obnoxious….   

“I thought the whole hiding away bit, denying who I really am, that was the difficult part,” he locked his eerie eyes on hers, daring her to look away. “Wouldn’t. You. Agree?”

“No,” she said, composed, hands still neatly folded on the table, back straight as a rod. But she did subtly avert her eyes from his unnerving stare, looking at her hands instead of him. “Not really, since I’ve never had the need to run away from anything, Mr. Holmes.”

“Bravo for you,” now Sherlock’s voice dripped with disdain. 

“OK,” Carruthers said, getting up, making John think of an aggravated grizzly bear in a nature show he watched once. “There is no need to insult my assistant. We are cooperating. We want whoever or whatever is responsible stopped.”

“Oh of course you do,” Sherlock said. “But not to save the little kiddies or grannies or addicts and alkies hiding in the abandoned buildings…” he paused, drumming his fingers on his lips “Ah, of course,” He smiled, demonically. “It makes perfect sense.”

“What does?” Carruthers said, warily. Miss Smith had gone slightly pale but her eyes were still trained on Sherlock, as if daring him to say something.

“Drugs,” Sherlock said dreamily, walking around the room, to a little table where some decorative knickknacks and an empty crystal vase sat. “All the destroyed buildings involved the drug trade somehow, legal or otherwise. This brokerage is a money-laundering front.”

“WHAT?” Carruthers shouted. “That… is…just stupid! And insulting!”

“I hope your partner can prove that Dr. Watson,” Miss Smith said quietly, which was far more effective than Carruthers’ yelling. She flicked her eyes away from John to look at her superior. Both John and Sherlock interpreted the glance she gave him Sit down. “Otherwise you are going to be in for a load of trouble. And stop fiddling with that vase, it’s expensive.”

“Oh I can prove it,” Sherlock said, ignoring her. “You both know I can prove it. Shredding files and deleting hard drives won’t protect you either because it’s not the police you’re afraid of.” He flipped the vase in the air, a pretty crystal thing, and deftly caught it.

Carruthers definitely looked like an enraged bear now. Miss Smith, however, had gone stark white but, admirably, kept her body still and her words measured. “Mr. Holmes, all due respect, this would not be the first time you were wrong. If memory serves, the last time you were wrong, you were so spectacularly wrong, not only did you have to make a nose-dive off a hospital roof to divert a mad man and waste two years of your life in hiding but you put the lives of your three best friends at risk.”

That was a direct hit. Sherlock was very glad he had back to her when she said that. Just out of spite, he let the vase slip from his fingers. As it shattered, he said “Oops.”

“I’ll be sending you an invoice for that,” Miss Smith said, unruffled.

“An invoice we will not be paying,” Sherlock informed her “Because I plan on helping you, not having your prosecuted.”

Both Carruthers and Miss Smith looked absolutely confused. John was too, but knew better than to say anything. “If we’re criminals,” Miss Smith said slowly, “why would you be interested in helping us?”

“Obviously, the bombings are some sort of message to you, or at least this firm. Keep cleaning the dirty money or else … boom.” He sidestepped the broken crystal shards and walked around the table to stand directly behind Miss Smith, staring over her head to lock eyes with Carruthers. But he only stood behind Miss Smith because he knew it increased her discomfort. He hoped while he spoke she would make another mistake.

“If it was business as usual, then there wouldn’t be any need for these little messages, would there? But for reasons I have not yet deducted… yet… it was decided that this firm was going to go the straight and narrow and that made someone decidedly unhappy. Whose bad books did you get into Mr. Carruthers? Or did your English wife ask you to give up the criminal life?”

“My wife is dead,” Carruthers said a little too quickly. “Car crash. Years ago.”

 “How convenient,” Sherlock drawled. Carruthers’ face flushed crimson but before he could retort, Sherlock shrugged “Considering the fact your English bride never existed in the first place. At any rate either you can save me valuable time and tell me who the villain is or I can figure it out myself and let Scotland Yard know that you were not very cooperative after all.”

John caught the look Miss Smith shot Carruthers. Tell him.

Carruthers ignored her. “Out,” he snapped at Sherlock. “How dare you… unbelievable. My wife was real… You ARE as crazy as they say in the tabloids-“

“Robert…” Miss Smith said, just the slightest touch of panic in her lovely voice now.

“Miss Smith, show the Consulting Detective and his fan club out,” he snapped, striding out of the room, slamming the door.  

Miss Smith unfolded her hands. They were shaking. She stood up, a tall lady, taller than John but not as tall as Sherlock. She faced him, for the first time, dead on, eye to eye. Sherlock finally was able to see she had what people would consider “hazel” eyes, a throwaway word used to describe the unique hue of green and gold fused together by amber.

Although her hands trembled, her voice did not. “Please do not go to the police,” she said lowly. “You don’t understand… you have no idea.” She took a breath and pressed her palms together, unconsciously mirroring Sherlock when he was deep in thought. “We employee thirty people in-house plus we are the general managing upline agency for nearly a hundred independent agents who sell policies for GBF. If the police get involved, those people will lose their livelihoods. They will lose everything if this firm goes under, so please, let this go.” 

His response was to snatch her right wrist and pull her hand towards him, his nose nearly touching her knuckles, almost as if he was going to kiss her hand. Then he flipped her hand over and studied her palm like a demented fortune teller

She tried to jerk her hand back, but, like so many others, she underestimated his strength. Even as John rounded the table, she ordered Sherlock coldly “Release me.”

Sherlock ignored her and continued to invade her personal space by slowly tracing his finger over her palms and down and over the side of her pointer finger.

“I will scratch your bloody eyes out of if you don’t release me,” Miss Smith hung onto her control by a very very thin thread as he twisted her wrist again so he could study her wristwatch. “Are you even listening to me?” her voice was positively Arctic now.

“Sherlock,” John stood behind Miss Smith, unsure if he would have to pull Miss Smith out of Sherlock’s grip or restrain Miss Smith if she decided to attack Sherlock. “Let her go.”

Sherlock let her go and took a step back, holding his hands like a magician. Ta-da. “I understand everything perfectly now, Miss Smith.” His voice was just as frigid as hers. “In fact, I understood that you were a liar the minute you opened your mouth.”

Her cheeks pinkened but she folded her arms across her chest, staring over her glasses at him. “Understand this,” she said, her voice absolutely Arctic now,  “If you thought you were in over your head before your Great Fall that doesn’t even compare what is going on below the surface here. Do yourself a favor,” now she advanced, now she invaded his personal space completely. “Save yourself, save your friend,” she turned to look at John, still behind her. “I assure you, Mr. Holmes, you don’t have any lives left to spare.” She smoothed down her blazer. “For appearance sake, please don’t make a scene when I escort you out. They’re just ordinary people trying to make their way in this world.”

“We can show ourselves out-“ John started to say but Her Majesty cut him off: “I just said I didn’t want a scene, didn’t I? It would be unusual if I didn’t escort you out.”

“She doesn’t want us talking to the plebeians,” Sherlock said. “Who knows what in their ignorance they might accidentally reveal.”

“Come by again and the police will arrest you for trespass,” she said as she stepped away from Sherlock, brushed past John and went to open the door. The blush had disappeared from her face; she was perfectly in control of herself again. “Gentlemen, if you please.”

Sherlock and John followed the lady out the door, Sherlock still wearing that insufferable smirk, that “I know something that everyone should have noticed but did not and I shall gloat about it later” smirk. No one seemed to pay much mind to the three of them as she led them to the lift. She swiped her card in the security reader and pressed the button for the lobby. “Tight security,” Sherlock murmured.

“No different from any other business office,” she said simply. “There is a lot of sensitive financial information here, plus nobody wants their handbag or coat nicked when they go to lunch.”

“Sensible,” Sherlock said as they rode down the lift.  

 When the doors opened, both Sherlock and John could see the camera lights flashing even before they got out of the lift. “Oh no,” John moaned as Sherlock’s hand unconsciously rose to the back of his neck, despite the usual scarf wound around it.

“Oh dear,” Miss Smith said without a shred of remorse. “Did someone tip off the press that the Great Consulting Detective and his one-man-fan-club were here?” When both men turned to glare at her, she gave them a bitchy little smile. “Pity. I’m sure the Twitter and Instagram pictures people posted earlier this afternoon while you were napped on the bus bench were an added bonus for them. Good day, gentlemen.” She leaned back against the lift wall and allowed her bitchy little smile to widen.

They didn’t have a choice. The lift wouldn’t go back up unless she swiped her access card to get to her floor and she wasn’t budging. 

“C’mon,” John murmured to Sherlock, tugging discreetly on his coat cuff. “We’ll have the front desk girl call a cab and we’ll get through the fleas the best we can, won’t we?”

In a complete snit now, Sherlock stalked out of the lift and straight towards the lobby doors, opening the glass doors with a flourish, like a rock star. Only he wasn’t stopping for autographs.

“Or not,” John sighed. He turned to Miss Smith. “This isn’t over.” The words felt funny in his mouth, they were the same ones he had uttered to his wife earlier that day.

“Yes it is,” Miss Smith said, straightening up. “Better go fetch him, Dr. Watson. He’s your friend.”

John furrowed his brow. Something was trying to work its way from his subconscious, what exactly he wasn’t sure but it was causing a most distressing wave of déjà vu.

He gave her an once-over look, which she returned with an arch of a perfect eyebrow. He turned from her and hurried after Sherlock, who had thrust himself headlong into the throng of reporters and paparazzi, all shouting questions and snapping pictures. Sherlock ducked his head down, jammed his hands into his coat pockets and stepped right out into the street, without seeming to look before crossing. There was a screech of brakes as a car quickly decelerated when the driver saw some fool was crossing the street now.

“Oh God,” John said, heart in his throat. He pushed through the reporters, but they let him go easily. He wasn’t important; he didn’t count, even after everything that had happened he was still just Sherlock’s pet, his blogger.

Which, to be honest, was just fine with John.

Sherlock was safely across the street and trying to hail a cab by the time John was able to dart through traffic to reach him. Once beside him, John angrily said to Sherlock “Don’t bloody do that again!”

“Do what?”

“Play in traffic!  Are you trying to kill yourself for real this time?”  

“No,” Sherlock said, eying the reporters and paparazzi, still taking their pictures, but none of them seem brave enough to run out into the busy City traffic. “I knew had plenty of time to cross, I observed how fast the cars were driving. Although I did hope the fleas would follow me and end up as stains on windshields.”

“Sherlock,” John said as a cab finally pulled over to the curb. “Please please don’t run out into the street like that again. It makes me nervous.”

Sherlock looked slightly abashed. “Forgive me,” he said, apologizing for the third time that day, only this time, he sounded somewhat sincere. He even stood back and let John into the cab first before climbing in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Sherlock gave him the address to the surgery, to John’s surprise but as Sherlock explained “It’s closer and it’s logical to let you our first then to go to Baker Street.” He unwound his scarf as if it was made of steel wool. “Damn,” he said, raking his nails up and down the back of his neck.

“Right, you’re coming with me to the surgery,” John said firmly. “I want a better look at those, get some tissue samples and I want to prescribe an oral antihistamine that will at the very least control the symptoms. It’s not habit-forming,” he snapped when Sherlock stopped scratching long enough to scowl at him. “And I’ll choose something that won’t make you foggy or sleepy, alright? But I don’t like it how when you have an outbreak, it always starts on your neck. Last thing we need is your throat to swell shut or some ruddy thing.”

“Can I test the tissue samples?” Sherlock asked eagerly, a like a small boy asking if he could drive Dad’s car.

“No,” John said.

“Can I have any extra samples and examine them at home?

“NO.”

Sherlock sulked and scratched.

“Stop scratching,” John murmured absently, staring out the window, watching the City go by. “Sherlock,” he found himself saying “What do you think of déjà vu?”

“Insipid, stupid, waste of time,” the grumpy response came swiftly.

“OK, sorry, let me rephrase,” John said, still staring out the window, trying to marshal his thoughts. “Why do you think people think they feel that? Déjà vu? Because I just felt it, see.”

“Some scientists believe a symptom of schizophrenia is the sensation of déjà vu.”

“Oh ha ha, John’s crazy, yeah, cheers.” John turned to face Sherlock and only then did he see his friend was literally sitting on his hands to keep from scratching. Sherlock’s face was the absolute picture of utter misery. John reached over and turned Sherlock’s coat and shirt collar down. The hives were spreading at an alarming rate.  “Jesus… Oi! Can you go any faster?” John asked the cabbie.

“In this traffic?” the cabbie responded.

“Try,” John said though clenched teeth. To Sherlock, he said “You breathing OK? Throat tight?”

“My respiratory functions are performing normally and there is no tightness around my throat. I only wish to peel my flesh off my body but other than that, I’m bloody brilliant.”

“Forget the oral, I’m giving you an injection of an antihistamine when we go in and we’re going to talk about you carrying an epi pin on you.” John said tersely, alarmed how quick this bout came on and how fast it was spreading.

“Instead of talking about how you’re going to turn me into a pin cushion, talk to me more about déjà vu,” Sherlock said, still sitting on his hands, but hunched over now. The itching had gone from irritating to almost unbearable. “Helps me keep my mind off of this tedious... tiresome… reaction,” his forehead was nearly touching his knees.

“Yeah, because it really looks like you’re bored to tears,” John deadpanned. When Sherlock gave him a half-desperate, half-demented glare from his supine position, John said “Alright, alright, when I was talking to Miss Smith in the lift after she threw us to the wolves, she said something that just triggered… I dunno, a funny feeling. It really felt like I’ve heard what she said before but I can’t place it.”

“What did she say? Miss Smith,” Sherlock grunted, looking at his knees, rocking back and forth just slightly, still sitting on his hands. “That triggered this supposed sense of déjà vu? Tell me, precisely, the exact words she uttered which triggered this funny feeling.”

John frowned. Then, slowly, he repeated Miss Smith’s words verbatim: “’He’s your friend.’”

 “That’s what she said? Exactly?”

“Yes,” John said as Sherlock tried to bite back a whimper of pain.

“Help me get my coat off,” he gasped, sitting up, undoing the coat buttons. “It’s spreading… the weight of it… unbearable.” As John reached around and helped pull the heavy coat and the suit jacket off, Sherlock said “Did you feel like you heard that turn of phrase in recent memory or long ago?” He loosened a few of the buttons of his dress shirt and held the cloth away from him.

The cabbie happened to glance in the wing mirror just then. “Get a room!” he barked.

“Does this LOOK romantic?” John barked back. “He’s in medical distress. I told you to hurry.”

“Well next time flag down an ambulance instead of a cab!” the cabbie shot back.

“Hilarious,” Sherlock snarled. “The next time you wonder why your career as a stand-up comedian never took off; use this afternoon to remind yourself it’s because you’re not funny.”

“How’d you know I wanted to b-“ the cabbie started but John said “Don’t- just… don’t.” Seeing that Sherlock was about to inform the cabbie exactly what he observed in order to deduct he was a failed comedian, John said quickly “Recent, but not like yesterday. In the past few years.”

“Before or after the Fall?” Sherlock asked, bent over again, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

John hesitated. “After.”

“Shortly after or right before I came back?”

“Shortly after the Fall… Sherlock, you OK? Any tightness in your throat or chest?”

“NO. We’ve already established it’s a psychosomatic reaction to the paparazzi plaguing my life. I’m not having trouble breathing or speaking. It. Just. Bloody Itches!”  He sat up, wrapped his arms tightly around his diaphragm, eyes still shut. “If it was shortly after the Fall you were distraught, inconsolable. You isolated yourself. You hadn’t met Mary yet. You would have only talked to three people in that time period. Mrs. Hudson, who would have only cried instead of conversed, except to list my multitude of sins. Molly Hooper, who avoided you because she was afraid she’d reveal her role in the Fall. And Lestrade. So, try to recall every meaningful conversation you had with Lestrade within the few months after my ‘suicide’ and you’ll locate the memory that’s making you think you’re experiencing déjà vu… ARE WE THERE YET?” he finally shouted, the itching past the point of endurance now.

 “Yes,” John said, gathering up Sherlock’s coat, jacket and scarf as the cab slowed down in front of the surgery. “Come on, we’ll get you fixed up.” Awkwardly, burdened with Sherlock’s things, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket, but Sherlock had already thrown some notes into the front seat and bolted from the cab. “”Um… thank you,” John said and scooted out before the cabbie could say anything else.

He jogged up to Sherlock, who violently scratched his neck, right shoulder and chest, past caring now. He opened the door for him and followed him inside. He walked past Sherlock and went straight to the charge nurse at the desk “Need a room,” he said crisply “Now.”

“We’re slow today,” she said “Take Exam Room 1.”

“Thank you,” he said, turning back to Sherlock. “This way…” and he lead the absolutely miserable man into the examination room. “Now,” John ordered, putting Sherlock’s coat, jacket and scarf down then reaching for latex gloves. “Take off your shirt.”

Even through the pain, Sherlock grinned mischievously “People will talk.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Clever Girl

John looked up from his computer and over at the small sofa in his office. It was really more of a love seat than a proper sofa, but it was all that could fit in such a small space. Sherlock looked absolutely ridiculous sprawled out on it, his long legs hanging over the armrest, but John positively adamantly refused to let Sherlock go back to Baker Street until he knew he wasn’t going to have some sort of reaction to the powerful drug he injected into him for the hives.

Sherlock, naturally, had a temper tantrum and flung himself onto the love seat.

And fell asleep ten minutes later.

John, after reassuring himself Sherlock was merely asleep instead of unconscious, spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on paperwork since the surgery was extremely slow that afternoon. John yawned, stretched and looked at his watch. Five o’clock.

Miss Smith would be leaving her work in an hour.

John leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking, puzzling over her words again. “’He’s your friend’,” he murmured. He wracked his brain, trying to think of the conversations he had with Lestrade after The Fall. They were few and far between. As usual, Sherlock was right, John had hidden himself away from everyone, writing, researching, grieving. Lestrade only came a few times to Baker Street…

… except that one night he called me and told me to meet him at that one pub he likes near King’s Cross… because he had something for me he wanted me to listen to..

 John sat straight up, the memory clear as a sunny day...

***

19 August 2011
St. Chad’s Place
Friday evening
6:30 PM

“You look like hell,” Lestrade said when John slid into the booth across from him.

“Nice to see you too,” John grunted.

“I put Donovan on unpaid leave,” Lestrade said with no further ado “Pending inquiry.”

John blinked “How does this affect me?”

“It… it doesn’t fix anything,” Lestrade said, his shoulders slumping slightly. “But I found out she withheld evidence.”

“Evidence?” John said, his heart starting to beat faster.

“That Sherlock wasn’t a fraud, that he was being framed, like he said. Like you said.”

“She…” John’s mouth went very dry. He swallowed. He needed a drink. “She did what?”

“Two days before Sherlock, well… you know…”

Goodbye John…

“Yeah, I know,” John said shortly.

“An anonymous tipster has left several messages on Donovan’s voice mail. Saying Moriarty had been stalking her and her friend. Said he murdered her ‘friend’”, Lestrade made the obnoxious quotation marks sign with his fingers “Because he was a loose end in his master plot. Said Moriarty had also been stalking Sherlock for months, years even. Was planning some big finale for him. Then, hours before Sherlock jumped the tipster called Donavan again, left another message on Donovan’s phone, begging her to ignore the press, follow the evidence. Basically gift-wrapped Moriarty for her in a neat bow,” Lestrade swirled the beer in his glass. “We could have had him.”  

John needed a drink very badly now. “We could have had… we could have caught…stopped him. Oh God,” a new wave of hurt crashed down on John now.

I’m a fake…it was a trick, a magic trick… I wanted to impress you…

I don’t have friends. I just have one…

Goodbye John…

“We could have saved him,” John said bleakly, too overwhelmed to weep.

“I’m sorry John,” Lestrade said heavily. “I don’t enjoy bringing you more pain, but yeah.”

“How did you find out?” John asked. “I don’t see Sally just admitting she mucked things up.”

“I found out,” Lestrade said, “Because the tipster rang me.”

“What?”

“Today, early this morning. Told me she was tired of the press dragging Sherlock Holmes’ name the mud. Told me how Sally ignored her. Told me where to find the locker where she had hidden the knife used to murder her “friend”. The knife that had Moriarty’s fingerprints on it and the blood matching an unsolved homicide… a Cyril Morton, thirty-five, bartender. Throat slit. Body was found in the hallway of the flat, but the flat itself had been started on fire so there wasn’t a lot of physical evidence to go on.”

“But,” John said, unable to help himself. “The body had been moved to the hallway… someone wanted him to be found.”

“Somebody who knew what was going on,” Lestrade said grimly. “Someone who knew too much. Someone absolutely terrified of Moriarty but tried to do the right thing anyway… but she called the wrong person. She called Donovan, who wrote her off as just some attention-seeking berk. At least,” he smiled bitterly “that’s what Sally claimed when I confronted her after the tipster rang off.” Lestrade drained his glass then reached into his inside coat pocket and produced a memory stick. “Fortunately I had presence of mind to record conversation I had with the tipster. Made Sally listen, made her realize her pride got a man killed. Then told her to give me her badge and weapon and to get the hell out of my sight.” He held his mobile out to John. “Thought you’d want to give it a listen. Help us figure out who this woman is.”

“Why?” John said, wearily. “I was never the brain.” 

“No,” Lestrade said. “You were the heart. He thought, you felt.” He put the mobile on the table and pushed it gently towards the doctor. “Come on, John,” he wheedled “One last case. For Sherlock.”

 John stared numbly at the memory stick. It felt like someone else’s arm moving, someone else’s hand closing around the small piece of plastic.

“For Sherlock,” he said.

 **

13 March 2015
London Walk-in Clinic and Surgery
Friday evening
5:05 PM

John snapped out of his reverie and looked at his very much alive friend, still sleeping. The voice on the mobile still remained a mystery but it was the spark that brought him back to the land of the living, He wasn’t the only one who believed in Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade did too. Soon after, the spark turned into a wildfire. The Post-It notes and graffiti would appear on the walls of St. Bart’s and surrounding pavement: I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty was real… Social media exploded with the conspiracy theories and support for the late Great Detective not to mention all the hostile accusations hurtled towards Scotland Yard, demanding to know why they hadn’t done anything. Braying for their blood.

But on that day, that blistering hot August day, holding that memory stick, it was just a small spark, a tiny ember beginning to burn inside of John. Slowly starting to burn through the numbing grief, igniting the fiery rage I was right I was right I was right…

To this day, John still hated Sally Donovan with a burning passion, even more than he loathed Kitty Riley. Kitty was a stupid girl looking for a bit of fame and attention. Sally should have known better, Sally the Consummate Professional.

This world would be much better, John thought, looking down at his wedding band if there were more Mary’s and less Sally’s and Kitty’s. And more Molly Hooper’s and Mrs. Hudson’s too.

He didn’t know where Violet Smith fit in on the feminine mystique scale. She had none of “his girls’” warmth and she definitely didn’t have Mary’s shrewdness.  But Violet wasn’t an attention-seeking brat like Kitty or a prideful bitch like Sally. She didn’t seem to be an out-of-control alcoholic drama queen like his sister Harriet either. Violet suffered no fools, but appeared to genuinely care about her staff’s well-being. She ignored Sherlock for the most part until he had started attacking Carruthers. Then her attacks had been merciless and personal, cruel really. Especially tipping off the press.

He hated waking Sherlock, but he couldn’t leave him at the surgery either. He’d treat it like his personal playground. “Hey, Sherlock?” John gently shook his shoulder.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “What time is it?”

“A little after five. I need to go, if I’m going to ‘accidentally’ meet Miss Smith.”

“You’re still going to do that?” Sherlock said, a little bewildered. “I thought I’d have to argue with you to do so.”

“After today’s meeting, I’m a bit curious.” John moved as Sherlock swung his legs around. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Sherlock admitted, running his fingers down his neck.  “Much better. The rash is already receding.”

John took a quick look for himself then nodded approvingly. “Good,” he said, handing Sherlock his coat, jacket and scarf. “I want you to go home and get some rest, doctor’s orders,” he added as Sherlock opened his mouth to argue. “Plus, you know Miss Smith isn’t going to talk to you. Plus I don’t want you to relapse if there are still paps hanging about.”

 “Can’t I stay here? I can wait for you here; her office is closer to here than Baker Street. ”

“Absolutely NOT,” John said, pulling on his own coat. “I will meet you tomorrow,” John pulled out his mobile to check to see if Mary had texted, which she had… asking if he was going to be late. He texted her back saying “Yes, sorry love, will be a bit late” to her while saying to Sherlock “I will meet you tomorrow morning at Baker Street before work and give you a full report, unless there is some sort of emergency which I’ll either text or call you immediately, so keep your mobile  on.”

“I resent being treated like a child,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Stop acting like one then,” John said reasonably.

***

John took the bus instead of a cab back to the office, thinking it would be less conspicuous. Indeed, the evening commuters were even less observant than the morning ones, not even looking at their Smartphones. Most were either listening to music on their iPhones or just sat dumbly, looking defeated after spending another unrewarding day in a thankless job, looking forward to nothing more than tea, telly and bed. 

John thanked every Deity known on earth and any unknown that he was blessed with the world’s most supportive and understanding (albeit slightly murderous) wife. Then he remembered their row early this morning and his conscience twinged uncomfortably. Yes, she understood his need to do this, to live this kind of life and to work with Sherlock, but her patience was definitely thinning.

John made a mental note to buy Mary flowers as the bus slowed his stop. As he disembarked, he also made another mental note to have another chat with Sherlock regarding Personal Boundaries and the need to Pick Up the Phone before just showing up at their terrace house at any hour that suited him.

Really Sherlock has prepared me for parenthood John smiled as he sat down on the bus stop bench, waiting for Miss Smith to make an appearance. He saw that her Pronto was still chained to the bike rack. The teenage years are going to be a breeze, compared to his mood swings.

“Pardon me?” a soft, wheezing voice beside him interrupted his thoughts. John turned and saw an older gentleman, in his mid to late sixties, standing beside him. He wore a heavy black coat that had seen better days and a soft plaid muffler wound around his neck. His silver hair was like an aged lion’s mane and he wore a pair of worn tortoiseshell spectacles that were probably fashionable ten years ago. He leaned heavily on a cane that brought unpleasant memories back to John. “Do you mind?” The old man gestured towards the empty space next to John.

“Oh, not at all,” John scooted over to give the older man more room. He checked his watch. He had time to spare. “Please.”

“Thank you,” the older man said, looking genuinely relieved. “Arthritis. Both knees.”

“Ah,” John said, nodding.

“Bitter night it is. Winter just doesn’t want to let go yet, does it?”

“Certainly feels that way,” John said, again thankful he chose his warm coat and sensible boots this morning. Then remembered Mrs. Hudson had included his bloodstained scarf into her dry cleaning bundle the other day. He wondered if the stains had come out.

“Say,” the older man said, studying him in the lamp light. “Do I know you?”

“Um,” John said. “Dunno. Probably not…”

“Sure I do,” he said. “You’re with that detective, the one with the funny first name, What’sit Holmes… you’re his partner! You’re Dr. Watson.”

‘Err, yeah sorry, guilty,” John said, glancing at the office building to make sure he didn’t miss Miss Smith’s leaving. “And it’s Sherlock, his first name.”

“Oh yes, right right right.” Despite his blunder, the old man looked pleased. “Well, I’ll be… this is a real pleasure. Read your blogs I do,” he said proudly. “I really admire you. And your work.”

“Oh well,” John said, embarrassed. “Um, thank you.” He wondered if the old man might be a bit touched in the head… how does one forget a name like Sherlock? 

And Sherlock was the star. Not him. Never him. Thank God, he thought.

“So are you here on a big case?” the old man asked, eyes sparkling with interest.

“No, sorry,” John gave him a smile. “Just meeting a colleague for drinks, then home.”

“Ah, yes, of course, well… don’t let an old man’s babbling keep you then.” He folded his hands over his cane. “Not every day you meet a celebrity.”

“Oh, I’m not…” flustered, John saw the office doors swing open and Miss Smith exiting. “Oh, there’s my colleague. I apologize, I really must…”

“Of course, of course, my bus will be here in a bit anyhow,” the old man smiled. “Really was a pleasure meeting you. Wife’s never going to believe this.”

“Right, well, good evening,” John said, anxious to be away, completely unnerved. Really, it was always Sherlock people gravitated towards, Sherlock who people were fascinated with. John wasn’t sure he liked being fawning over. I might break out in a rash too if this keeps up….  

 Traffic was still appalling, more so now people were rushing from work to homes, restaurants and pubs. Friday night in the City of London. He only barely caught up to Miss Smith after he got across the street; she had just swung up onto her bike. “Miss Smith! Miss Smith, wait!”

She turned, still wearing her eyeglasses instead of her sunglasses. She also had her coat, hat, scarf, skinny denim slacks and boots back on from this morning. She scowled at him, gripping the handle bars of her bike. “What part of ‘I’ll have you arrested for trespass’ did you fail to understand?”

“Miss Smith,” John panted, having run across the street, feeling like he nearly missed being run over multiple times. “Please. I came to apologize for this afternoon. For Sherlock.”

“Occupational hazard?” she asked coolly, studying him. “Apologizing for him?”

“You could say that,” he said, catching his breath. A bolt of inspiration hit him “Look, I get it, there’s something going on, something dangerous and it’s the last thing I really want to get involved in,” he said, trying to look sympathetic,  using his “Puppy Dog Eyes” as Mary called it. “But once Sherlock’s got his teeth into something, it’s nearly impossible to get him to disengage. I need your help, I need something that will convince him this whole thing is boring, not worth his time.”  When she looked away from him, debating, John said “Let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least I can do for what happened this afternoon.” She turned back to him, her eyes slits, eyebrows furrowed. He held his left hand up. “Miss Smith, I’m not trying to chat you up, I’m married, you see. That’s why I really want to leave this case alone, I heard you loud and clear. I just need help convincing Sherlock to walk away.”

“OK,” she said, swinging her leg over the bike seat, standing next to it. “There’s a coffee shop not too far from here that doesn’t get too crowded this early in the evening. I know it’s cold but,” she gestured towards the bike.

“No problem,” John said, walking beside her as she started pushing her bike. “It’s not raining.”

“You’re making a sensible decision you know,” she said “Walking away.”

“I think so too,” John lied “Now let’s think of a way to convince my mad partner to do the same.”

***

“I have to confess,” Miss Smith said an hour and two cups of coffee later, “I do read your blog.”

 She had taken off her coat and her suit jacket as it was quite toasty in the coffee shop. John felt almost unpleasantly warm in his jumper but it was better than freezing to death or being rained on. She however had only a short sleeved blouse sleeves underneath her blazer and seemed comfortable enough.

She asked “So how long were you in the military for?”

“Too long,” he said, allowing himself to relax just a bit. It was nice café, off the beaten track. Ignored by the commuters and tourists. Only the locals would patronize this spot. The coffee was good and the food was passable. Knowing he was going to miss dinner (and Mary was probably not going to be kind and prepare a plate for him to reheat when he got home) John ordered a sandwich for himself and coffee for them both, but she declined food.

“That’s what you all say,” she said, for the first time since he met her, seeming to relax. “My family was military, well, my father, really. He always swore up and down he was done, retiring at the first opportunity possible but he fooled no one. He was Career.”

“Is he still in service?”

Her eyes clouded over. “No. He was killed in the first Iraq war, back in Eighty-Nine. I was sent to live with my grandparents. It was a bit of a culture shock to go from a military base to a farm.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John said. “What about your mother?”

“She had passed away years earlier. Car accident, she had some sort of fit and crashed the car. No one was really sure what happened, she was perfectly healthy. No history of epilepsy. But I was very young, maybe six? So I don’t really remember exactly what happened and no one really talked about it later,” she studied the dregs of her coffee.  A half-smile appeared on her face. “We weren’t exactly a warm family, sharing feelings wasn’t exactly our thing.”

“’Keep calm and carry on’?” John said sympathetically.

She rolled her eyes. “Exactly. ‘Stiff upper lip’ and all of that… outdated rubbish.” She reached for the coffeepot.

“You’ll never sleep,” John said, watching her pour a third cup for herself.

“I don’t sleep much,” she said. “Not when I’m working.”

John swallowed the desire to tell her she sounded just like Sherlock right then. “You’re not going back to the office after this, are you? Your boss doesn’t seem like a slave-driver,” John said, trying to steer the conversation back towards the office, hoping she’d some something revealing or at the very least interesting to bring back to Sherlock. “Until Sherlock pissed him off, he seemed like a good bloke to work for.”

“He is,” Miss Smith added cream but no sugar to her coffee. “I tutor kids on the weekends.”

“Oh, what school do you tutor for?” John asked.

“I privately tutor the swotty little brats who have fallen behind in their studies due their scintillating social lives,” she shook her head. “I weep for the future of the world.”

“What do you tutor?”

“Languages and music,” she said. “I have an ear for both. I blame my father for the languages, dragging me from one military post to another as a child. The music,” she shrugged. “Nobody really knows where that came from so that’s completely mine.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes “So tomorrow I get to listen to the Future of England massacre the French and Spanish languages and murder Beethoven when in reality the way the world is going, they should really be learning Chinese and Farsi and computer coding.” She shrugged. “C'est la vie.”

“Right,” John said. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry but if you dislike teaching the brats so much...?”

“Why do I do it?” She blew on her coffee then sipped. “Well, times are difficult, aren’t they? Everyone has trouble making ends meet. We try to provide fair wages and benefits to our employees but we’re only a small firm. We can’t compete with the bigger agencies, even when we have huge customers like GBF Holdings UK and in fact … well, I don’t know how much longer GBF is going to remain a customer of ours… especially if your partner decides to announce his latest deduction to the world. That will be the death knell of our business. Robert’s side ventures actually have been keeping our firm alive.” She put her cup neatly inside the saucer and folded her hands on the Formica table in front of her. “That’s thirty people, thirty families without an income. Not to mention our independent contracted agents in the field who depend on our support when they are selling. I know what it looks like but please don’t judge. Robert is a good man and has a long fuse. Your partner tested him severely today.”

“He does do that,” John admitted “Pushing buttons.”

Miss Smith took another neat sip of her coffee, but held onto her cup. “You know, you see him, Mr. Holmes, on the telly and read about him in the papers and Internet… and you think ‘There is no way someone is that obnoxious, that arrogant, that mad. The media is completely demonizing him. If I met him and talked to him in person, it would be different, the real Sherlock could show himself. Then you do meet him… and he’s horrible,” she laughed softly and shook her head, putting the cup down. “Oh come on! He is! He really is. How do you stand it? I mean, you lived with him for nearly two years? You deserve some sort of medal. Or sainthood.” 

She sipped her coffee again as John spoke, trying to extol Sherlock’s virtues.

“He’s not easy-going, no. But he’s honest.”

“Brutally honest,” she deadpanned, putting her cup again. Leaning her face on her hand, studying him, she said “But has zero problems lying when the need arises. Do you two think I was born yesterday Dr. Watson? ‘Accidentally’ running into poor Olivia McCullough while ‘texting’ so he could take a look at her paperwork? Please.” 

“For him it’s more like acting than lying,” John said “And you’re forgetting he’s fiercely intelligent, a proper genius really, curious and brave. And loyal. He saved not just my life, but my wife’s as well. I can’t ever repay him.”

“He’s not the only loyal one,” Miss Smith frowned, staring at his face intently. Too late, he realized he wildly underestimated Miss Smith. Sitting across the table from her now, John could see a fierce intellect blazing in her hazel eyes. John suddenly felt that unpleasant “under-the-microscope” sensation he got often from being the subject of Sherlock’s observations.

She’s deducing me, John thought. Shit.

She slowly sat up, straight and imperial. “So how would he feel knowing you were going behind his back, trying to think of a way to dissuade him from taking a case he finds absolutely fascinating?” She looked around the shop. “Where is he?”

“At home,” John said, hoping to quell her sudden anger. “I told him to go home, I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“As if he listens to you,” she hissed at him. “You little liar. You both are going to get us all killed.”

“I think,” a familiar baritone intoned behind her “We already established you were the liar.”

Both Miss Smith and John jumped. Miss Smith had chosen the seat facing the door. Sherlock had been hiding in the coffee shop’s small kitchen, where the pastries, sandwiches and salads were prepped. Miss Smith stood up, turning to face Sherlock, who strolled around the table, as if he just happened to pop into this particular coffee shop. “You two enjoy your date,” she informed them as Sherlock sat down next to John. “I’m going home.”

“FBI or CIA?” Sherlock said causally.

“What?” John and Miss Smith said in unison. It would have been funny except John sounded utterly baffled, as if Sherlock announced he believed in fairies. Miss Smith on the other hand reacted as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on her. She dropped back down in her chair, as if her legs had given way.

“Clever girl,” Sherlock said sardonically “To wrap your lies with the truth, an old trick, but one that did you more of a disservice today. You really should have called in ill instead of trying to run interference between me and your superior, who is not Canadian just as you’re not English. You would have maintained your cover and it would have been more convenient for me if you had stayed home. I would have gotten everything I needed from Carruthers and John would have been home by now with his lovely wife.”

“You mean ‘beard’,” Miss Smith said nastily but her face was snow-white.

Goaded by her attack on John and Mary Watson, Sherlock held nothing back:

“I said you gave yourself away when you opened your mouth. Very true, for the minute I saw your teeth, your very straight teeth-“ Miss Smith covered her mouth. “- I knew you were not English. Obsessing over oral hygiene and orthodontia is such an American tendency, wouldn’t you agree?”

“An American…?” John said, bewildered but that sense of déjà vu crept up on him again. He’s your friend…   “Wait…”

Sherlock ignored him. “Your hair appears straight, yet the small fly-a-aways around your face betray the fact your hair is actually curly not to mention the millimeter of new growth indicates you are actually dishwater blonde, as they call it, not a redhead, although that false color is far more attractive. You use cosmetics to conceal the color of your eyebrows and eyelashes and if they scraped the foundation and powder you cake on your face, then it would be obvious to see the bridge of your nose and your cheeks have the same dusting of freckles as your arms do.” Miss Smith looked at her bare arms then grabbed her blazer and jerkily pulled it on.

Sherlock was nowhere near finished. “By the way, you can take off those ridiculous glasses, the lenses aren’t corrective. While it’s difficult to determine your age when you’ve got all that slop on your face, your hands and your neck betray your age as somewhere between late thirties, early forties. Definitely not a spring chicken.

“You took piano as a child and can still play with some reasonable talent so you keep your nails short out of habit because of that. Because of your posture and your breathing techniques you employed during our meeting earlier today, I know you practice yoga, but I also could tell from the calluses on your palm and the roughness of your knuckles, you also practice some sort of hand-to-hand combat, martial arts? Kickboxing perhaps? I also noticed a very strange indentation on your right index finger. John has a similar one, from pulling a gun trigger repeatedly. How often do you go out to the firing ranges, Miss Smith and could you please tell me your real surname? It annoys me to repeat a lie once it’s been unmasked.”

The woman only stared him down, fear and fury flashing in her eyes.

“Very well,” Sherlock said. “If you truly have an ear for foreign languages, this would have made it easier for you to adapt an English accent, which is good enough for the average Briton to accept as authentic. However there is a very very slight nasal quality in your voice you haven’t quite been able to eradicate that is definitely not British in origin. Every once in a while you also drop the “d” and “g” in words, but not enough to raise the suspicion of a native here. You never had a thick drawl like an American Southerner or a harsh accent like a New Yorker. No, your true voice would be considered “accentless” in America; therefore your parents came from Midwest region.  Indiana, perhaps Illinois. But definitely Midwestern and because your tendency to not always fully enunciate the final “d’s” and “g’s” in words indicates a rural upbringing as you were telling the truth you were sent back to your grandparents to live after your father died. You also speak very quickly, which is also a Midwestern American trait.”

John opened his mouth to ask how in the hell did he deduct all of that, especially since she sounded and looked perfectly British to him but the déjà vu hit him again He’s your friend…

“Hang on,” he said, louder now, but Sherlock, on a roll and thoroughly enjoying himself, talked over John:

“Your boss, Carruthers or whatever his true surname is, choose Canada as his cover because he grew up in part of America that closely bordered Canada. He probably wasn’t even lying when he said he grew up near Winnipeg, he was just on the other side of the border. So, no immediate family, your proficiency with languages, your ability to go deep undercover, your expertise with firearms and the way you deducted John is a loyal friend who would not go behind my back just by watching his facial expressions leads me back to my original question. Are you FBI or CIA? And when were you betrayed by your own country?”  When she didn’t immediately answer, he added “And your dog is an Alsatian, or what Americans call a ‘German Shepherd’. There’s dog hair on your coat and of course…” he pointed at her pendant.

That’s no necklace John realized. It’s a bloody dog whistle. But she’s never… she can’t be…

Miss Smith took off her glasses and smoothed back the nearly invisibly fly-a-away hairs that escaped her sleek ponytail. Every inch of her vibrated with anger. John wondered if she was going to chuck the cup of hot coffee in Sherlock’s face.

But then she said “I’ve been here for seven years and you’re the first person to ever question my accent.”

She spoke quickly in a plain, flat American accent, ever so slightly through the nose.

Just as Sherlock described.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Distressed Damsel

“Shut your mouth John,” Sherlock told his friend without even looking at him.

John snapped his jaw shut, still staring at the woman across from him. “You’re an American, a bloody Amer-“  

“Shut up,” she snarled, looking around at the café nervously. There was no one there except a very bored barista who was playing some insipid game on his iPhone. He hadn’t even noticed the appearance of the Great Consulting Deductive. She took a deep breath. “My name is Violet Hunter,” she said softly, probably the first time she said her own real name in her own real voice in years. It was not melodic as it was in the morning when she first spoke to them. Her true voice sounded like an out-of-tune piano. Her eyes never left Sherlock’s. “I was a profiler in the VICAP division with the FBI. And I’m really not comfortable continuing this conversation here.”

“VICAP?” John asked.

“Why were you disavowed?” Sherlock asked.

“Violent Criminal Apprehension Program,” she whispered to John as she stood up. Rapidly putting on her coat, scarf and gloves, she whispered to Sherlock “I need to leave. Before you both get me and everyone else killed with your stubbornness.”

 “That’s not our intent,” John said.

“The path to hell is paved with good intentions,” she said. Looking over again at the barista, who was now playing some new addictive online game on his gadget with the headphones jammed in his ears she lowered her voice and said urgently “These people who are blackmailing us will not hesitate to kill every single person that works for us and their families. These people set up my team and have been picking us off one by one for the last seven years. Out of seven people, only three of us are left.” She paused, deliberating something. Then, in a hard voice, she added “One of my colleagues was personally murdered by Jim Moriarty. Cut his throat to ribbons.”

John felt his mouth go dry. The smirk disappeared from Sherlock’s face.

“Oh good. I finally got your attention,” Violet said, pulling her slouchy knit hat over her hair.

“Completely,” John said. “We know how deadly he was and his organization is still dangerous. We can help you,” John said. “Sherlock’s got a brother in gov-“

“NO,” she said forcefully then nervously looked over at the barista who was still absorbed with his game. Remembered she had walked in she had spoke with an English accent but was now using an American one. She blew out a breath and resumed using the English accent.  Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a small disgusted noise when she did so. “Please don’t call anybody involved with your government,” she said, her voice rounded and melodic again, but also completely desperate. “Please tell your friends at the Yard this is a dead end and walk away. Please. Promise me.”  

“Only,” Sherlock leaned back in his seat “If you tell us why you were disavowed.”

Violet paused and closed her eyes, looking like she was in actual pain. Then she picked up her messenger bag and looped it over her right shoulder. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything Mr. Holmes since you obviously have some sort of death wish.” She opened her eyes and picked up her fake glasses. Putting them back on, she said “But send your blogger home. You can’t expect him to risk his life just because you’re suicidal.”

“John,” Sherlock said, his gaze never leaving Violet’s face “I’ve got this. Go home to Mary.”

“No,” John said. “She’s right, if this involves Moriarty in any way shape or form, you’re in over your head and I’m coming with you.”

“So you can drown with him?” Violet said sharply. “You are a fool. Especially for someone who told me tonight you’re a married man, how long do you think you’ll remain a married man tagging along with him? Women don’t like to compete for the attention of their husbands.”  

 .. an ordinary woman can’t compete with an extraordinary man… his row with Mary that morning reverberated in his head.

“John,” Sherlock said calmly. “She’s right. It will be fine. I will accompany Miss Smith,” he sneered “To her flat for a cup of tea and a proper chat. You go home and placate your wife. Then we’ll ring Lestrade tomorrow and tell him the trail went cold.”

He sounded completely reasonable. John knew he was planning something utterly mad and lethal when he sounded that reasonable.

“You will NOT accompany me to my flat. You will meet me at my flat in an hour,” she plucked a pen out of her purse and scrawled her address on a napkin “Be discreet.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, taking the napkin when she held it out to him. “One hour.”

“By the way, Mr. Holmes,” she said, dropping her pen back into her purse. “I’m thirty-nine, the exact same age as you,” she reverted back to her American accent to call him: “Jackass.” And with that, she glided out of the shop, her boot heels clomping on the linoleum floor.

As the door slammed shut, Sherlock’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh! Her birthday must be January 6 as well. Incredible. Impressive. She really did do her research.”

“Gold star for her,” John muttered as both he and Sherlock turned to watch her from their seats out the window as she unchained her bike and pedal off.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, checked the time, balled up the napkin with Violet’s address and dropped it in John’s cooling cup of coffee while saying “Come along then.”

“Wait, I thought I was supposed to go home?”

“Yes, just like I was supposed to go home like a good boy too,” Sherlock said, bouncing out of his seat and heading towards the door.

“You put the address in my coffee?” John asked, getting up and pulling on his own coat.

“Fake,” Sherlock said. “She’s trying to throw us off the scent. She lives on Hartwill Street in the City. If we wait the hour as she requested, we would have wound up at the incorrect address and she would be in the wind.””

“She’s making a run for it,” John said, glad that he had brought his gun with after all, snug in its ankle holster. After the past few years, John did not like going out unarmed anymore.

“Precisely,” Sherlock said. “Fortunately, after Lestrade gave me access to the files and police computers-“

“Meaning you hacked into Lestrade’s computer,” John sighed as Sherlock hailed a cab “Again.”

“I only hack in when he’s being annoying and obstructive,” Sherlock said as a cab slowed down.

“Thought you pickpocket him when he was annoying?”

“Oh, I pickpocket him only for fun now,” Sherlock said as he climbed into the backseat. After giving the cab driver Violet’s true address, he said to John. “But I digress. Once I determined the common denominator of all these explosions, I decided it would be prudent to follow Miss Smith,” he said her false surname as if tasting something foul, like cough syrup “before arranging a meeting.”

“She didn’t notice you yesterday then?” John asked, thinking back to her earlier statement. Profiler… “Following her about? I mean, she got paid by the American government to do exactly what you do to avoid boredom.”

“Profiling,” Sherlock said haughtily “Is NOTHING compared to what I do. Profiling is a fuzzy science at best. I create logical conclusions based on objective observation and indisputable facts. Profiling makes an assumption regarding a person’s behavior based on visible traits or observed tendencies which can be colored by personal bias. I deduct. Profilers guess.”

“Yeah, well, she sure guessed correctly when I was lying about going behind your back,” John said as the cab hurtled through the hideous City traffic.

“Your voice pitches up a half-octave and you blink your eyes a micro-second longer than usual when you lie. Both are typical unconscious tics that occur when one is being dishonest. Just because profiling is a stupid pointless occupation doesn’t mean she herself is stupid.”

“She has to have some brains to stay alive this long if she appeared on Moriarty’s radar,” John said. “You sure she didn’t know you were following her around yesterday?  

“Positive,” Sherlock said. “She’s not the only one who knows how to hide in plain sight.”

“Ah so you had left the deerstalker at home,” John quipped.

“I so had fervently hoped you would have burned the Death Frisbee during my Great Hiatus.”

“Oh no. Used it to build a shrine, actually.”

“John, that’s just… disturbing,” Under his breath he muttered “A shrine. Honestly….”

John smiled.

***

Sherlock and John arrived at Violet’s flat twenty minutes before she did. “What if she doesn’t come straight home?” John said after fifteen minutes had passed since they arrived at Hartwill Avenue and had darted into the alley across from her building. Still in the City, these streets were far narrower and the buildings older and closer together than the ones in the Financial District. “What if she decides to scarper after all?”

“Her dog,” Sherlock said. “She will return for the dog.”

“Bit risky,” John said, “Keeping a dog when you’re trying lie low.”

“Would you accost a lone woman walking a vicious police dog?”

“Ah. No,” John said, stamping his feet to keep them warm. “Do you think it’s true what she said about being disavowed and all? Or do you think it’s another fairytale she’s feeding us?”  

“She never broke eye contact when she spoke to me in her true voice,” Sherlock said, his own eyes darting around here, there and everywhere, observing everything “That was a complete turnabout from this afternoon when she wouldn’t even look at me. She did her research and most undoubtedly created a profile of me based upon that. She knew to give me as little as possible to observe. Hence, her cold treatment of me, hence the meeting in the conference room instead of Carruthers’ office, hence her tipping off the press solely to aggravate me. Everything thing she did this afternoon was to keep me at a distance, to discourage me.”

“Keep you at arm’s length so you couldn’t figure her out,” John said. “But tonight, before you got here, before she figured out I was lying, she opened up to me. That’s a pretty big leap of faith.”

“If she researched me then she undoubtedly researched you too and therefore knew you were a trustworthy man with a good heart, a rare commodity indeed.”

The unexpected and slightly odd compliment warmed John but he didn’t say anything. He knew better. If he made a comment, Sherlock would completely undo the kind words with harsh ones.

“And she wants something from us,” Sherlock mused. “Protection perhaps, but then she would have gone with us to Baker Street immediately… I wonder…”

“Sherlock,” John nodded towards the east. Both he and Sherlock took a step back into the shadows as Violet pedaled up to her building.

Violet had dismounted from her bike and looped her messenger bag over her shoulder. She was reaching for her purse and faux Louboutins when a strange voice said “Hey lady, d’ ya got some spare change?”

He looked like what one would expect a homeless person would look like but something must have spooked Violet because she picked up her Prowler, showing the strength that Sherlock had observed and John had missed. She threw the heavy bicycle with all her might into the homeless man, hitting him square in the face and chest. Her purse and shoes went flying. Without checking to see if he fell, she whirled around and ran the other direction.

She might have made it too if another man hadn’t stepped out of the shadows and clothes-lined her with his arm. She fell flat on her back.

John made a move to charge towards them, but Sherlock put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Do not give away our position,” he whispered. “If they wanted her dead, she would be. If they were going to kidnap her, there would be a van or lorry parked nearby and there isn’t. There must be something in her flat they want,” Sherlock watched Thug #2 grabbed Violet by her upper arm and haul her to her feet. Neither John nor Sherlock could hear what was said.

Sherlock continued talking “They’ll take her inside and try to shake her down and when they either get what they want from her or tire of interrogating her, then they’ll kill her.”

“Oh that’s so much better than killing her immediately,” John spat as he watched Thug #2 drag Violet up the stairs to the entrance of her building. Meanwhile Thug #1 had pushed the heavy bicycle off of him and struggled to his feet. Thug #2 must have squeezed Violet’s arm with some force because her knees buckled, then she pulled out her door keys from her coat pocket while Thug #1 looked warily around for witnesses. But there were no cars driving through and most of the lights in the surrounding flats were turned off. This was an area meant for young unmarried professionals just starting their careers: cheap rents, great location. Most would be out. Friday night, after all.

“Did I say we were going to allow the murder of Miss Hunter?” Sherlock sighed at John’s obtuseness as the thugs herded Violet inside. “I’m really not a machine you know.”

“Never going to let that one go, are you?” John grumbled.

“Nope.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said I was sorry for the Fall and you hit me in the face. Repeatedly.”

“You faked your bloody death!” John spluttered. “That’s a BIT different than name-calling!”

“Perhaps it would be prudent to continue this delightful conversation later as there is a damsel in distress in the fortress across the street,” Sherlock said, walking out of the alley way.

“She’s a lot of things,” John said, trotting after him. “But she’s no distressed damsel.”

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to reach the door, pulling on the handle. He was contemplating ringing the buzzer and tricking someone into letting him in when the door swung open and a gaggle of giggling twenty-something year old girls came spilling out. It wasn’t difficult to grab the door, pretend to be a gentleman and hold it open for them. John moved to the side to avoid the stampede then hurried up the stairs and through the door. Sherlock followed and let the heavy door swing shut behind him.

“Where does she live?” John asked. 

“First floor,” Sherlock said, heading towards the stairs. He hated lifts. Death traps, really.

Both Sherlock and John took the stairs two at a time. It took maybe thirty seconds to get to the top. Quietly, they opened the door to the first true floor of the building; the downstairs was only a cramped lobby where the mailboxes were. Sherlock put his finger to his lips and both he and John tread lightly down the carpeted hallway, Sherlock’s eyes glued to the carpet, spotting the thugs’ shoeprints and Violet’s boot-prints in the fabric. He stopped in front of the door and placed his ear against it, frowning. The wood was thin: he could hear a man’s voice, threatening Violet, then he heard Violet (still using her ghastly fake English accent) insisting he was making a mistake. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of an open hand hitting a woman’s face.

Sherlock pounded on the door as John knelt down and pulled his gun out of the ankle holster. 

“Oi, Violet,” Sherlock said, slurring his words, sounding dead drunk. “Open up, I know you’re in there, love. Lemme in.” When there was no response, Sherlock went on “Look I’m sorry OK? I know I’ve been a complete arse but I wanna make it up to you…” Sherlock went whole hog and even faked a sob “C’mon Violet, please let me in. Gimme a second chance, I’m begging you.”

“And the BAFTA goes to…” John muttered. Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

The door opened. Thug #1 answered. He opened his mouth but what he was going to say would never be known because Sherlock head-butted him with such force he fell flat on his back, hitting his head on the hard wood floor, knocking himself unconscious. Sherlock stormed inside the tiny flat, John right behind him, gun pointed, covering Sherlock.

Thug #2 drew his gun. He stood next to Violet, who sat on the footstool. Her coat and hat had been removed and thrown on the floor next to her messenger bag but she still wore her blazer, scarf and fake eyeglasses. A livid red mark stood out on her check. A trickle of blood streamed from her nose, dripping onto her crisp white blouse. Other than that, she appeared unhurt, more angry than scared.  

“Put the gun down,” John said, pointing it at Thug #2’s head.

“No mate,” A third thug came out of the kitchen, a gun pointed at Sherlock’s head. “You put the gun down and hands up, down on your knees.”

Shit John thought as he and Sherlock walked around the unconscious Thug #1 then kneeling as Thug #3 quickly closed the door. John put his gun down and put his hands on his head. Sherlock did the same. Shit shit shit shit shit not good not good…

 “What do we do with these two?” Thug #3 asked, locking the door. “Kill them now or later?”

Later please John thought Like oh maybe fifty years later when I’ve lost my marbles and am in an old folks home But he held his tongue. Come on Sherlock pull a rabbit out of your hat…

“No don’t,” Violet burst out, amazingly enough, still with an English accent. “Please don’t. What you want is in my bedroom. My iPod, on the nightstand next to my bed.”

“Clever,” Thug #3 grunted “Hidden in plain sight it was.”

A half-smile quirked up on Sherlock’s lips Cleverer than you know… he thought. Obviously you did not check the bedroom before you came nor did any sort of research about the lady…

“Ah see, love,” Thug #2 caressed Violet’s face with the barrel of his gun. “That’s all we wanted, a little cooperation.” He said to Thug #3 “If she’s lying, shoot the hobbit first,” and walked over to the bedroom door.

Sherlock sniggered while John whispered “Shut up.”

But the minute Thug #2 opened the door, Violet cried out “RACHE!”

Thug #2 didn’t have time to point his gun. The Alsatian pounced on his chest, jaws clamped onto his throat. During the confusion, Sherlock, closest to Thug #3 grabbed him around the waist and shoved him to the floor. John jumped up and grabbed the thug’s gun arm, forcing him to point the gun up at the ceiling. Violet lunged off the footstool, grabbed John’s gun and scrambled to her feet. All the while, Thug #2 tried to scream while the dog savaged his throat.

 “Put it down,” she said to Thug #3 dropping the English accent. To the dog, she said “Stoppen.”

The dog stopped mauling Thug #2, sat on his haunches and proudly wagged his tail. Really he’d be downright cuddly if it wasn’t for the blood all over his muzzle. Then something caught his attention and he made a beeline for the kitchen.

In the meantime, Thug #3 loosened his grip on his gun. Sherlock took it from him as he stood up. “Who are you?” he demanded pointing the gun at him while John hauled him to his feet.

Thug #3 pushed John off of him. John went to go find something to bind the scoundrel’s hands when the scoundrel reached into his coat pocket “Don’t-“ Violet said but he pulled out something small and shoved it in his mouth. Both John and Sherlock tackled him again, Sherlock pinning his arms down while John tried to fish the pill out of his mouth but the cyanide tablet worked too quickly. He became limp as a boiled noodle. Sherlock and John let him slump to the floor.

Violet lowered the gun, looking around at the chaos, wiping her bloody nose with the back of her hand. Thug #2 moaned then moved no more. Thug #1 lay still, completely oblivious.  

“I think it’s safe to say you’re not getting your deposit back,” John said. Blood was everywhere.   

Sherlock’s attention however was focused on the kitchen “Agent Hunter,” he said, absently putting the dead thug’s gun into his coat pocket.  “Your dog, is he a retired drug sniffer or a retired bomb sniffer?”

“Bomb sniffer why-“ she stopped herself. “Oh you got to be kidding me,” she rushed into the kitchen, Sherlock and John right behind her

They found the dog aggressively pawing the cupboard doors under the sink, its nails digging into the ugly paint. “Definitely not getting your deposit back,” John deadpanned.

Violet knelt down by her dog. “Stone, what is it?” she asked, running a hand over his head. John wonders if it just hadn’t sunken in with her yet that her “pet” just mauled a man to death. Then he realized she gave the dog the command to do so.

No, only someone completely mental would bother her in the street with this hound by her side.

Violet opened the cupboard below the sink. All three of them crouched down and peered into it.

A neat stack of grayish bricks sat where dish soap and the rubbish bin should have been. The bricks were neatly wrapped with an assortment of many colored wires. There was a digital clock taped to it, beeping softly. With all the earlier commotion, the noise had been easy to miss.

“Oh shit,” Violet said, turning and racing back into the lounge.

“Where’s the Off Switch?” John asked Sherlock.

“There isn’t one,” was the calm response.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE ISN’T ONE? YOU SAID THERE ALWAYS WAS ONE!”

“Remarkable,” Sherlock ignored John’s shouting. “This has a double-denotation. If I find a way to stop the clock on this timer, then a second timer will automatically begin, with a shorter denotation time. Extraordinary... very imaginative… I am actually impressed.”

“Lovely. Can you diffuse it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Excellent! Great, brilliant!” John said “How long would it take you?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Sherlock inched closer to the bomb, transfixed.  

“Great! Errm… how much time is on the primary clock then?”

“Ten minutes and counting,” Sherlock said, hands steepled under his chin, staring thoughtfully at the bomb “Five on the secondary clock.”

John could hear Sherlock’s thoughts as if he had spoken aloud: Challenge accepted “NO,” he said, grabbing Sherlock by the back of his coat collar and yanking him up, hard. “We are leaving. We are not playing Beat the Clock.”

Violet had already beaten them to the punch. She had flung open the closet door, grabbed an old black leather jacket and jerked it on. She then grabbed a leash and scooped up a rucksack off the floor. As John and a very unwilling Sherlock re-entered the lounge, she threw the leash at John and the rucksack at Sherlock. She hurried to retrieve her messenger bag. She no longer moved with a regal grace but a briskness of a woman used to handling things on her own. “John, take Stone and get the hell out of here.”

“What about the other people that live here?” John demanded. “We can’t-“

She yanked the dog whistle, the dainty chain breaking with a fine snap. “There’s a fire alarm by the stairs to the lobby. Pull it. The fire station’s not that far away. Plus I’m sure my upstairs neighbors have called the cops by now with all the noise we’ve been making,” She looked at the dead man and the unconscious man then shoved the dog whistle in to John’s hand, giving instructions all the while: “To attack, blow once. Stop is Stoppen. We’ll meet you at Baker Street,” she turned to Sherlock “You’re with me, come on.”

Sherlock gave the kitchen a longing look while John said “Don’t be stupid, come out with m-“

“You can blend in with the crowd, he can’t,” she jerked her head towards him. “And I need him alive so he can clear my name.” Violet said as she checked her watch “What are you waiting for? He said we have less than ten minutes. GO!”

No matter what her name or accent or nationality she was, Violet was still the type of woman who expected her commands to be immediately obeyed. Not excited about walking a murderous dog, but even less excited to be in a building full of explosives, John said “OK OK, um, Stone, come,” he said nervously as he checked his watch. Eight minutes and counting…

“Gladstone,” she said pointing at John “Freund.”

Gladstone padded up to John, sniffing, wagging his tail. Nervously he said, “Good boy…” and casting a terrified look at Sherlock, he said “See you at Baker Street,” he clipped the leash to the dog’s collar, was grateful his arm didn’t get gnawed off and hurried out.

John was not overly fond of dogs after the Hound of Baskerville incident.

Sherlock, with one last yearning look at the kitchen, strapped on the rucksack to his back and followed Violet into the bedroom, where she had already opening the window to the fire escape. Mere seconds later, the fire alarm rang shrilly through the building.

“No,” Sherlock said brusquely, pushing her aside as she lifted a leg to climb out. He stuck his head out the window, checking to see if the coast was clear. It was, for now. He slid through the window and reached for the railings of the fire escape on the building right next to Violet’s. Fortunately her flat was in an older part of the City so the buildings were much closer together than the more modern ones. A complete fire hazard but fortunate for their circumstances.

Like a monkey, he grasped the bars and swung himself easily from one fire escape to the other. “Hurry,” he said, leaning over, holding his gloved hands out to Violet.

Gritting her teeth, Violet reached for Sherlock and clung to his shoulders while he grasped her under her arms and pulled her over the bars of her fire escape. She barely had enough time to tuck her feet up as he hauled her over. She tumbled into his arms and then hurriedly pushed away, starting to go down the wobbly stairs. But Sherlock grabbed her arm again, pulling her to him. “I need this,” he said, yanking her scarf off and wrapping it around his elbow. “Stay here,” he snapped when she made to move again.

“Why-“ she started to say, but he then smashed open the window glass with his wrapped elbow, then reached inside to undo the lock. Pushing the window up, he grabbed her upper arm again like she was a recalcitrant toddler. “Hurry,” he said, pushing her through the open window into the empty bedroom then following with a glance over his shoulder. He unwound the scarf from his arm and threw it down, not bothering to watch it flutter to the pavement. John please be away from here… he prayed to a God he didn’t believe in or at very least had stopped listening.

Both Sherlock and Violet sprinted through the strange flat, out the bedroom, fumbling through the darkened lounge, but finding the door in the dim light. Spilling out into the hallway, they saw the lift and both Sherlock and Violet checked their watches as they ran towards it. Four minutes.

“God,” Violet said as she pulled the fire alarm “We’re not going to make it.”

Sherlock opened the door to the stairwell. Convenient how the all the brownstone buildings on this block were similar.  “Yes we are,” Sherlock said as they entered the stairwell. “No,” he said as Violet started going down the stairs. “Up.” He took off without checking if she was following.

“Up?” Violet said, dumbfounded as she followed. “UP? What is it with you and ROOFS?”

Taking two, sometimes three steps at a time, it took them less than two minutes to get to the roof. The buildings were not that high at all, only five stories. Sherlock pushed open the door and didn’t stop running, Violet right on his heels, her bag slapping against her thigh.

The buildings were maybe less than three feet apart from each other. These were not rooftops intended for parties or urban gardens but plain, utilitarian roofs. Sherlock cleared the space between the buildings easily. So did Violet but she took her bag off, threw it over the gap and then had to add an extra burst of speed as she sprinted towards the building edge since her legs were not as long as his. She scooped up the bag without stopping her stride. She didn’t look behind her as they both ran across the roof of the third building they were on, again, similar to her building. But instead of jumping to the fourth building, Sherlock pivoted and tackled Violet, shielding her with his slender body, just as her block of flats blew. Sherlock and Violet felt their building shake violently as Violet’s building imploded. What few people had been home on a Friday night, screamed in the streets. Dust and smoke were everywhere but not much debris.

Ears ringing from the explosion, both Violet and Sherlock sat up, disoriented. Violet shook her head and put her hands to her ears, opening and closing her mouth, trying to get her ears to pop. Sherlock looked around, disliking how dizzy he felt. Hating feeling weakened in any capacity. His heart pounded. Had John and that atrocious hound gotten away?    

He knew the vertigo was due to the damage to their ears from the explosion. He hoped there wasn’t any permanent harm to their eardrums or middle ears. However it didn’t seem prudent to try anymore jumps. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and carefully walked as close as he dared to the edge, trying to see how much damage the bomb in Violet’s kitchen caused, but more smoke drifted their way as the winds changed direction. Eyes stinging, he turned away, starting to cough. He then saw old fashioned ladder rungs and he returned to Violet.

Helping her to her feet, handling her a bit gentler than before (but not by much) he said. “This way” as he lead her towards the fire escape ladder.

She looked over her shoulders, at the growing orange glow enveloped with hazy gray smoke behind her. Sirens wailed, louder now, getting closer. “They wanted to make it look like fire,” she said wonderingly.

“Like a gas leak,” Sherlock said, relieved the dizziness was already abating. “Come on.”

“The other buildings,” she said, looping her messenger bag back over her shoulder. “Did all they look like explosions caused by accidents or were some of them obvious bombings?” Realizing her fake glasses were irreparably damaged, she took them off and put them in her coat pocket.

“The surgery that exploded in London on Wednesday was the first to look like a proper terrorist bombing,” Sherlock said hurrying towards the ladder railings leading down to the fire escape. He wasn’t sure about the building’s integrity although they were two buildings away and the bombing was very similar to the surgery. It had collapsed on itself rather than blowing to bits, although it still caught fire and as close to each other as these old “revitalized” buildings were, Sherlock did not feel like taking any unnecessary chances. Plus, he realized with a heavy sigh, the Three Stooges they had left behind in Violet’s flat probably had friends lurking about.

Time to get back to Baker Street.

“Why would they change their MO like that?” Violet said, sounding like the American investigator she was rather than the English personal assistant persona she had been portraying.

“Why indeed,” Sherlock said, starting to climb down. “Come along, Agent Hunter.”

“I think,” she said, taking one last look at the burning building, “it’s OK to be on a first name basis at this point.”    

“If you must,” he responded, disinterested. Violet swung her feet over and slowly climbed down the ladder. Her head also swirled and her ears thudded. She felt a wave of relief as Sherlock continued down the fire escape stairs. 

She really wanted to feel the solid ground behind her feet.

**

John and that abominable dog had run in the direct opposite direction as Sherlock and Violet when he fled the building. As people started milling out of the building, wondering what on earth was going on, why the fire alarms had been pulled, John and Gladstone darted into the street and down the alley he and Sherlock skulked in only, what, twenty, thirty minutes ago? If that?

He and that damned hellhound ran through the maze of alleyways until the building blew. John stumbled but did not topple over. He whirled around, heart thudding in his chest, desperately wanting to grab his mobile and ring Sherlock. But if he and the American were on the run, a phone call probably would not be appreciated at that exact moment. The dog stopped, paced in a small circle (the alleys were quite narrow) and whined.

“Come on,” John said, wishing he could leave the damn thing behind. But it sounded so pathetic, apparently looking for his mistress. Funny how an animal can claim utter loyalty to one person, but kill another without remorse… then John felt nauseated; remembering the Thug Sherlock head-butted had not been dead but only unconscious.

Well, he was dead now, wasn’t he?

First do no harm…

“The path to hell really is paved with good intentions,” John made himself start walking again. “Hey, Gladstone? Come on, then,” he called the dog tugging on the leash, nervously, envisioning it jump up on him and start gnawing his face.

But Gladstone (bloody stupid name for a dog, John thought) padded up to him quite calmly, tail wagging. John wondered how Violet kept the dog from barking when those men dragged her into the flat. Surely the dog would have gone mad if he heard someone hurting his mistress.

Anxious to be out of the alleys now, John started to jog a bit towards the street lights. The dog kept up with him easily. Hopefully he could safely walk on the streets now that he’s put enough distance between himself and the bombed building. Hopefully no one would take notice of him, just some middle-aged bloke, taking his mutt out for a late-night stroll.

Hopefully no one would notice the bloodstains on the mutt’s muzzle.

I really don’t like this dog, John thought fretfully as they neared the end of the alley.

A man stepped out in front of him, blocking John’s way. A low growl rumbled in Gladstone’s throat and its ears lay absolutely flat against its head.

“Sorry Dr. Watson,” the man, a big bloke, taller than Sherlock and two-times wider, walked towards him. “Shoulda stayed outta this one, eh?”

Then John saw the knife in his hand. He reached for his own gun and then realized in horror: I don’t have it! Oh God, Violet has it! She picked it up when Sherlock and I were wrestling that madman to the floor, I forgot to get it away from her because of the bloody bomb and trying to make sure Sherlock didn’t blow himself to bits… not good.

Not good at all.

Panic blossomed in his heart and spread throughout his chest. “Please,” he said “I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know anything. I was just trying to get out of the building before it blew.”

The Large Man advanced, pointing the knife at John’s face. “Budge up a bit,” he said, waving the knife slightly at him. “We don’t want to scare the tourists with the mess.”

“No,” John said, standing resolutely. “You stab me, you stab me here.”

Maybe I can take him… he wondered looking up. He’s not as big as the Gollum was…

The Large Man pushed John hard in the chest with his free hand, which was approximately the size of a dustpan. John stumbled back a few steps, yanking on the leash, bringing the dog with him. The dog growled, standing in front of John, fur bristling.

“Back up,” The Large Man said again putting the knife away. “I ain’t gonna kill you.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” John disentangled himself from the leash. Gladstone kept winding himself around John’s legs, barking now.  

“Jesus!” the Large Man said, but he wasn’t getting closer to Gladstone. “Shut that dog up or I will,” he pulled a gun, pointed it at the frantic dog.

“Stone,” John said, heart pounding. “Stop… no… Stoppen.”  

Gladstone stopped pacing and barking but the growls were steady and repetitive.

“Put some distance between you and the mutt.” When John obeyed, the Large Man said “That’s better.” He stuffed the gun down the front of his trousers. Just to make sure John could still see it. “Retired police dog, eh? He ain’t going to attack me until you give the command. And you ain’t gonna give that command because that would change my plans.” The Large Man took the knife back out and waved it in John’s face. “’Cause right now, I got no plans or orders to kill you. So as long as nothing happens to change that… all I’m supposed to do cut out your tongue and send it to your boyfriend as a present…”

“Ah…um, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

 “… but now ‘coz you did piss me off I might take your balls too.”

“I’m married,” John said. “Wife’s got the balls in her handbag.”

The Large Man guffawed. “They said you were funny” and he punched John in the face then gave him a sharp jab right in the solar plexus followed by a punch in the gut. John dropped to his knees. The Large Man made a move to do more damage but Gladstone had worked himself up into a total frenzy now, pacing in front of John, baring his teeth and snapping at the Large Man every time he tried to get closer to John.

“Stoppen,” John rasped. The dog dropped behind him, belly on the ground, haunches raised, ears flat against its head. Waiting… growling…

What was the bloody attack command? John wracked his brain. What did she say?

 “Get up,” the Large Man ordered, taking his gun out again and pointed it at John. “Get up on your knees. Hands behind your head.”

John balled his fists tighter.

Felt the dog whistle in his hand. Miracle of miracles, he never dropped it. He forgot he’d been holding it.

“Can I,” he wildly improvised. “Give me a minute to…” he shakily got to his knees and put his hands together as if in prayer, hiding the whistle.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, this was supposed to be an easy job,” the Large Man gripped, putting the gun away again as John said “Our Father… who art in heaven…”

And put the whistle to his lips. And blew.

Gladstone exploded. John stayed kneeling, utterly gobsmacked at the dog’s speed. One minute it had been belly-flat on the ground behind him. The next it had been air born, powerful jaws on the Large Man’s throat.

Yes, it had been better they had retreated further back into the alley. The tourists would have been distraught by the mess indeed.

“Gladstone,” John croaked, getting to his feet “Stoppen.”

Gladstone obeyed and padded back over to John, tail wagging happily, cropped ears perked up now as if he was trying to say Didn’t I do good?

“Uh… good boy?” John said, not sure what gender the dog really was and didn’t feel inclined to check for confirmation. The tail waggled wider now and Gladstone nuzzled his nose under John’s hand, asking to be petted.

“Uh, yes,” John said, gingerly patting the top of the dog’s head. Realizing that this savage beast just saved him from being shot and eviscerated, John relaxed and scratched the dog’s ears.

“OK, OK,” he said. “I like you after all.”

Then he looked at the body in the alley and grimaced. “But you’re scary,” he said to the dog. “You know that right?”

Speaking of scary he thought Where the hell are Sherlock and the American?

Time to get out of the City and back to Baker Street. Hopefully they’d be waiting for him there.

***

They weren’t of course.

While John made his way out of the alley with Gladstone, hoping to find a cab who could be bribed into taking him and the dog back to Baker Street, Sherlock and Violet were backtracking back towards Violet’s office. “Takes longer on foot,” she grumbled, zipping up her jacket. The air was still frigid. “And since they blew up my building where I live, I think it’s a terrible idea to go the building where I work. Especially since we sent your friend and my dog to your place.”

“How were you able to keep the dog from barking when you were forced into your flat by those villains?” Sherlock asked. He had been puzzling over that for a better of fifteen minutes and was completely irritated he had to ask.

“He barks on command unless he actually sees a physical threat to me,” Violet said. “Since the bedroom door was closed, he couldn’t see the immediate threat and so, because he didn’t get the command to bark, he didn’t bark. If he had actually seen them with me, especially when the one guy hit me,” she shrugged. “Well, I might not even have to give the command to kill.”

“’Rache’” for kill?”

“Well,” she said. “Technically ‘Rache’ is ‘avenge’, but yeah. The whistle is for when audible commands aren’t possible.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured “How did you acquire such a creature?”

“Carruthers,” she said. “He didn’t like me on my own. I’m not sure how he wound up with Stone, but since I spoke German and he didn’t,” she shrugged. “It seemed logical and it put some of his fears to rest about me being by myself.”

“But you returned to work for Carruthers.”

“Yes,” she said, looking ahead.

“Before or after Moriarty contacted you? “

She closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds but kept walking. “After. After your Fall,” she looked up at him nervously, but he kept his eyes straight ahead.  She looked away. “Once Carruthers figured out I got tangled up in one of his webs, he ordered me to join him at his firm.”

“He was your superior at the FBI.”

“Yes he was,” Violet felt something flutter in her gut, what Carruthers always called her “spidey sense.” She knew the tall, thin man next to her would mock her for relying on feelings rather than cold hard data. But in her former life and her current one, she did not have the luxury to disregarding her instincts. And right now, they were screaming at her to run like hell. “Are we being followed?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, seemingly unperturbed.

“We’re not really going to my office are we?”

“No,” Sherlock said, suddenly grabbing her hand, as if they were a happy couple taking a nice walk through the City after a date. “When I say run, run,” he said lowly. “Do not let go.”

She didn’t like the way his leather gloves felt on her bare hand. But she didn’t like the idea of being followed either, especially on the heels of her home being blown up. So she told herself to keep her eyes and ears open and to hang onto this strange, impossible man for dear life.   

Without warning, he said “Run,” and jerked her arm, running down the pavement. Violet whipped her head around and saw two men pursuing. There was an unpleasant stitch in her side and her head still spun a little from the explosion, but she kept up with Sherlock.

The sprint was not a long one. Sherlock had ordered Violet to run when he spied his first opportunity: a cab slowing down for an older couple waiting patiently less than a quarter of a block away from them. When they reached the cab, it had just come to a complete stop. Sherlock shoved the older woman out of his way and slapped the poor man’s hand off the car door handle, wrenching the car door open, all but manhandling Violet inside.

“Hey!” the old man said but Sherlock slammed the door shut. “Drive.” He snarled at the cabbie.

“Man what is wrong with you? On the piss?” the cabbie asked, “It’s not OK to be shoving old folks around.”  

Violet, looking out the rear view window and seeing their pursuers, said in her faux English accent. “Yes, yes, he’s completely obliterated. 221B Baker Street! Hurry before he does something else completely embarrassing.”

The cab drove off just as the pursuers reached the cab, getting so close that one of them had his hand on the door handle.

Violet leaned back into her seat, ashen-faced, “Darling,” she said, slipping back into her “Miss Smith” persona. “I told you, you have to pace yourself a bit. All those people are furious with you. You just can’t drink like anymore, you’re almost forty you know.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock slurred, back into his “Drunk Boyfriend” role.

“We’re going to have a very long talk about tonight when we get back to the flat,” Violet said, with a pointed look at him, almost a glare.

“S’OK,” Sherlock snuggled into her, head on her shoulder, long arm flopping over her waist.

“Get off me,” she hissed softly but the cabbie didn’t seem to be paying attention.

He whispered into her ear “I’m your highly intoxicated boyfriend who can’t be held responsible for his actions at the moment… darling.”

“Then at least stop talking,” she whispered back.

He did, but she could feel his body shake with repressed laughter.

“You actually think this is funny?”

“I haven’t had this much fun in weeks,” Sherlock said loudly in his “Drunk Voice”, but Violet knew he was deadly serious. “It’s been so boring until now.”

“Hey now,” the cabbie said “Not going to have to throw cold water on you two, am I?”

“NO,” Violet said. “No no. No. No. No,” she turned her head to glare at Sherlock but only got a mouthful of hair as his face was still buried in her shoulder “NO.” she said emphatically.

“You’re gonna get it when you get home, mate,” the cabbie teased “And not in a good way.”

“Anyway I can get it,” Sherlock said, still sounding completely inebriated, both arms tightening around her waist now. His entire body now practically convulsed from suppressed amusement.

Violet’s mouth fell open when he embraced her. The profile she created on him did NOT indicate he engaged in such innuendo. If anything, he was practically monkish regarding his personal life. Granted, she knew he was a masterful actor but still… ugh. Really?

GET OFF ME she screamed in her head but she knew the cabbie was buying the whole Drunk Boyfriend/Disgruntled Girlfriend Show. So she fought the urge to dig her elbow into his chest and tried to relax as the cab maneuvered through the City traffic.   

It was a long cab ride from where they were to Baker Street. Violet almost dozed off but then the cab suddenly screeched to an unexpected halt. Violet braced herself and felt Sherlock’s arms tighten around her, but not in a lecherous way. Protective, preventing her from flying forward when the cab had slammed its brakes. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Dunno,” the cabbie said, digging into his pocket for his Smartphone. “One sec,” he said tapping into the screen.

“The explosion,” Sherlock whispered. His words were now crisp and precise, even in a voice softer than a sigh. “Traffic is being diverted. The fire probably spread to the other buildings, they were like matches in a box.”  

“Ah no, there was a massive fire in those shoddy buildings in the older part of the City that they’ve tried to “revitalize” or “rejuvenate” or whatever so they can attract the hipsters and yuppies. Whole city block’s gone up in flames. Traffic’s balls-up now.”

“We’re sitting ducks,” Violet whispered to Sherlock.

“Agreed,” he said, sitting up, wobbling a little like a drunk. He dug into his pocket, produced his wallet. “We’ll walk…” he shoved the money towards the cabbie.

The cabbie, bless him, looked worried “You sure? Can you handle him?”

“Of course,” Violet said with a sweet smile. “If he gets cheeky, I’ll shoot him.”

The cabbie laughed. Sherlock gave Violet a quick, suspicious glance but she sat serene as a queen during a peaceful progress. “Darling,” she smiled beatifically at him. “Come on. Lovely night, you’ll probably have walked it off by the time we get home.” She gave him a not so gentle shove, told the cabbie to keep the change and they left the cab, Sherlock weaving with Violet trying to support him.

The minute they were out of the cabbie’s eye sight, Violet quickly let him go and Sherlock straightened up and walked steadily. “Little warning next time,” Violet grumbled.

“Oh, like a safety word?” Sherlock sniped at her.

They walked towards St. Paul’s Cathedral. “We’ll cross over the Millennium Bridge then to the Jubilee tube station,” Sherlock said, flipping his collar up. “Traffic will be a nightmare; we’ll never find a cab at this rate. Buses will be stalled too.”

“And people wonder why I bike instead of drive.”

“That and it would be extraordinary difficult for you to obtain a driver’s license.”

“Not as hard as you would think. But honestly, I’m hard-wired to drive on the right hand side of the road,” Violet said practically. “I can drive a car in London if I have to but I’d really rather not.”

It was not a “lovely night” as Violet professed in the cab. Temperatures had plummeted even lower the later the night wore on. Violet, fatigued and freezing, wrapped her arms around herself and wished she had grabbed a warmer jacket. Plus her scarf had been sacrificed so Sherlock could break the bedroom window. Sherlock looked unaffected by the chill.

“Any ideas why the bomber changed his MO?” she asked, her investigator’s brain stirring as they got closer to St. Paul’s Cathedral. She looked at the street. Traffic was backed up bumper-to-bumper, even on the side streets, which Sherlock took an unexpected turn down.   

“Five ideas,” Sherlock mused “Each more impossible than the other.”

 Violet bit her lip, indecisive but then said “The blackmailer was part of our team. The FBI team I came with to England with in 2008.”

“Three ideas,” Sherlock jammed his hands in his coat pockets. “Did you suspect?”

“Yes but I didn’t have enough proof,” she admitted. “But not getting killed was my first priority instead of fact-finding. I went deep underground with my partner when shit hit the fan. The first few months were about staying alive. Unfortunately while my partner and I were out of London, Carruthers had gotten lost in the rat’s maze.”

“The,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose “Rat was an old friend of your superior. Strike that, he was an old military colleague of your superior’s who followed him into the FBI. Two ideas now…”

“They met at boot camp and had been inseparable ever since. There had been the inevitable rumors… ones I’m sure you and John can relate to.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and lips curled “John showed me the fanfiction.”

“The … what?” Then she quickly said “Never mind...” with a shake of her head. “Anyway,” she looked up and saw the dome of St. Paul’s looming closer and closer. “Anyway, Jack Woodley and Carruthers-“

“Not his real name.”

“And I’m not going to announce it out loud here either,” Violet snapped. “All you need to know is that Carruthers and Woodley were closer than brothers. They did tours in Iraq the first time around and again in Somalia. Then Carruthers had enough of military life and pursued a career with the feds. Jack followed. Everyone knew Jack, everyone liked Jack. No one saw this coming. When I pieced it all together, I… ” she faltered.

“Was in bed with Moriarty by then and couldn’t warn your old boss in time what his old army friend was really up to,” Sherlock said coldly.

“I wasn’t literally in bed with Moriarty,” Violet shuddered as they made their way around the cathedral grounds, towards the suspension bridge over the Thames.  

Sherlock flicked his eyes at her for a moment, but didn’t respond. He also didn’t speak at all during the long walk from the cathedral to the bridge. Violet’s stomach twisted nervously during his lapse into silence, especially after enduring his breathtakingly accurate and cruel analysis of her earlier that afternoon and most of this evening. Plus the unexpected familiarity, grabbing her hand, cuddling up with her in the cab threw her for a complete loop. Maybe my profile is completely wrong she thought, adjusting the leather strap digging into her shoulder, which was beginning to ache from the bag’s weight.

She stole a look up at his face, which was as expressionless as a block of marble. Quickly she scanned him from hair to heels before looking straight ahead again. Standing tall, walking with confidence, his “game face” is on. No, my profile is correct… it’s just not complete. Jesus God, how deep is this well? And how much poison is at the bottom?  

The Millennium Bridge at night was beautiful. The brightly colored lights reflected off the black water rushing below it. The unseasonable chill kept both natives and tourists away, but there were a few die-hards with their Smartphones and digital SRLs, bound and determined to get their vacation pictures for their Instagrams and Facebook feeds. 

As they walked down the bridge, Sherlock finally spoke. “What brought you to England?”

“A conference,” she said.

“Regarding?” Sherlock asked with a bite of impatience in his voice.

“A conference set up by Interpol that included people from the NSY, the Bureau and other European law enforcement agencies regarding ways to improve international cooperation regarding kidnap situations in foreign settings,” Violet said. “It was approximately the one year anniversary of the Madeleine McCann disappearance when we were sent to talk with the so-called experts from Scotland Yard along with some members of your Parliament who were deeply concerned regarding the welfare of all the children in the world,” she said bitterly.

“But there were no American politicians present?”

She smirked a little. “2008 was an election year, and an ugly one. Our politicians were too busy playing Game of Thrones to pay attention to missing kids over the pond. My team and I were sent over more as a courtesy and photo-op instead of anyone really giving a damn.”

“You did though,” Sherlock said. “You gave a damn. You went digging. You turned over a rock and saw the slimy underside. That’s why you insist on dragging that messenger bag along. All your research is in there. If that bag wasn’t so important, you would have either left it in the flat or given it to me instead of this rucksack, which I believe, judging how light it is, is nothing but a few days’ change of clothes, a few weapons, some basic cosmetics, and toiletries. Maybe a pair of trainers.” He jostled the back on his back, slightly, as if testing the weight.  

“I suspected,” Violet said darkly, grabbing the messenger bag’s strap with both hands possessively, as if she expected Sherlock to rip it off her. “I didn’t have enough evidence then.”

“You do now.”

“I don’t exist,” Violet reminded him.

Just then, halfway over the bridge, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed. Sherlock pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the caller ID, stopped and turned towards Violet. Confused, she stopped and turned as wekk, staring at him. In a bright hearty voice, he said “Brother, dear, how are you?” while keeping a sharp watch on Violet’s face.

Immediately her pupils contracted to pinpricks, her face, already pale, now drained of all color, her shoulders tensed, her jaw clenched. When she reached up to brush a strand of hair off her face, Sherlock noted how badly her hand trembled.

Earlier that evening, he had noted her swift rejection of John’s offer to contact Mycroft for help. How timely of Big Brother to call now. Why exactly was this American abjectly terrified of a minor government official?

Because she damn well knew he wasn’t a minor government official, that’s why.

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say Sherlock thought, amused as he listened to Mycroft being Mycroft:

“… now I know you must consider this as some sort of date but I really do insist you let me handle things from here now, Sherlock.”

“Because you’ve handled things so brilliantly in the past,” Sherlock said, walking towards the bridge’s railing. Violet, still shaking, tentatively followed him, looking to the right and left, as if she suspected government agents to appear out of thin air to snatch her.

That was a fair assessment, to be perfectly honest.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice was smooth as glass. “Please, can we not do this now?”

“Do what?” Sherlock ran his free hand over the smooth metal of the bridge rails.

“Sherlock, this isn’t about you and me and our differences, this is about national security.”

“Oh I know how you prize national security above everything else,” he dragged the last two words out in a very nasty tone of voice. “I can personally testify about your absolutely allegiance to God and Country, what lengths you’d go in order to defend the Crown and who you would throw under a bus in the name of national security.”

He paused “Or off a building.”

“That was your decision,” Mycroft said coldly.

“One I wouldn’t have had to make if you hadn’t sold me out to Moriarty,” Sherlock reminded him.

“We just need to talk to the American,” Mycroft said. “We are not turning her over to the States. We may even be able to offer her protection. But she does pose a… considerable hazard to you and we do need to question to her regarding a certain security risk I cannot divulge.”

Sherlock turned around and observed Violet Hunter.

Leather jacket, blood-stained blouse, black jeans, brown boots, both covered with dust and soot from the earlier explosion. Slightly swollen nose from where she had been hit. Chestnut hair tumbled down her shoulders and back in tangles, the smooth, sleek pony tail a distant memory. Clutching her bag like it was her only lifeline. Face liquid-paper white. Pupils still pinpricks. Shaking from cold and panic.

John’s gun in the waistband of her jeans, hidden by the leather jacket. She had multiple opportunities to kill him tonight. Multiple opportunities to abandon him.

Her eyes wide and pleading Please…

“No,” Sherlock said, tucking his mobile between his ear and shoulder as he hoisted himself up on the railing then straddled it like a horse in one fluid motion. Sitting on the rail though was less than comfortable. He hooked one of his heels on one of the tension wires running below the rail as if it was a saddle’s stirrup and raised himself up just a bit.  

His maneuverings shook Violet out of her stupor “What are you doing?”

“No?” Mycroft snapped.

“Call off your dogs,” Sherlock demanded as he gripped the rail with his free hand. It wouldn’t do to fall this time. “Tell them she has been remanded into my custody and will remain until further notice. You know there is no conclusive evidence she committed any criminal acts.”

“The United States thinks she did.”

“The United States also thought there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, didn’t they?” Sherlock countered.

“Hey now” Violet sounded less afraid and a little irritated “Not all of us believed that.”

“Sherlock, as usual, you are so busy studying the fine details you fail to see the big picture.”

“Mycroft, as usual, you are so busy worrying about the big picture you fail to observe that without the details, there is no big picture.” Sherlock looked down at Violet. “She isn’t going anywhere, especially with you. I’m having too much fun to let her out of my sight.”

Mycroft wanted to scream. Sherlock sounded exactly like he had when he was six years old and informed Mycroft he couldn’t have his Star Wars action figures back because it was his turn to play with them and he wasn’t done with his turn.

He has always been such a… brat.  

“Sherlock, you cannot take people in off the street like stray dogs!” Mycroft said. “There are police waiting for you two at one end of the bridge and MI-6 at the other. There is nowhere for you to go and if you resist, you’ll be detained and this time I may not be so inclined to spring you from whatever cell they throw you in.”

“Oh Mycroft, it distresses Mother so when you threaten me with incarceration,” Sherlock said turning his phone off and pocketing it. Holding onto the rail with both hands now, he swung his other long leg over, toes on the edge of the bridge, heels over the Thames. Clinging to his precarious perch with one hand, he beckoned to Violet with the other.

Violet, who had been edging closer and close to him as he spoke to Mycroft, now took a step backwards when he swung himself over the bridge railing. “NO. No no. No. No. No. NO.”

“Police on one end, MI-6 on the other, plus tourists coming closer with their camera phones,” Sherlock said. “It’s either me or my brother.”

Him or his brother.

The fire or the frying pan.

Violet let loose a string of curses that would have made John Watson blush but she scrambled up the tension wires like a ladder and pulled herself over the railing, gripping as tightly as she could to the smooth metal rail as her feet floundered, looking for support.

“Steady,” Sherlock said, hand underneath her armpit “One foot at a time.”

Violet, clinging to the rail, her balance off due to the messenger bag, gritted her teeth and swept her right foot side to side until she felt the edge of the bridge. Once her right foot had found (somewhat) secure footing, it was easier to place her left foot securely down as well.

“Well,” Violet said, heart pounding, body bowed forwards, fingers curled tightly around the tension wires. Assuming they were going to edge their way to one of the buttresses and somehow shimmy down the bridges support, she asked “Now which way?” she asked, hoping there were ladder rungs somewhere on the supports that she wasn’t seeing.

“Down,” Sherlock said.

“Down how?” Violet looked at the bridge lights reflecting off the black water. Suddenly it wasn’t so pretty anymore. “I am NOT jumping.”

“Wouldn’t dream of asking you to jump,” Sherlock purred.

Then he pushed her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: The Altar of the Greater Good

14 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Saturday morning
1:45 AM.

John paced back and forth in 221B’s lounge. He checked his watch again, knowing he had just checked it a minute ago.  

Where in God’s name is Sherlock?

His calls went straight to voice mail when he tried calling ringing Sherlock’s mobile and all of his texts had been unanswered.

This was bad.

When he had tried to call Mary at home, his calls went straight to voice mail on both the land line and mobile. All of his texts had been unanswered.

That was worse.

Gladstone curled up on the sofa and watched John stalk back and forth. He then put his muzzle on his paws and looked pathetic… or as pathetic as a blood-soaked dog could look.

Just when he decided to head back to the City to look for Sherlock, just as he grabbed his coat again, the door swung open. John’s jaw dropped.

Sherlock wasn’t alone; the American woman was with him, leaning on him heavily. The dog sat up, tongue lolling out, tail wagging happily at the sight of Violet.

And what a sight the pair of them was: both were soaked to the absolute core. They reeked of dirty river water. There were bits of dead leaves in their hair. John doubted dry cleaning was going to save the Belstaff this time. Both were deathly pale and shivering.

Violet resembled nothing like the cool, poised woman she was yesterday afternoon. With all the cosmetics washed away, she definitely looked thirty-nine years old with freckles on the bridge of her nose and across her cheekbones. Her hair hung in a soaked matted mess down her back.

“Well,” Sherlock said though chattering teeth as he escorted Violet inside “that was stimulating.”

 “WHERE IN THE HELL HAVE YOU TWO BEEN?” John wanted to throttle the pair of them.

“Sorry Dad,” Violet croaked out as she and Sherlock stumbled into the lounge.

John then saw how violently Sherlock and Violet shivered even though John had turned the thermostat up when he arrived so the flat felt nice and warm (Sherlock preferred to keep the flat as cool as a morgue). Violet nearly tripped over her own feet as she collapsed next to her dog. She let the messenger bag drop on the floor with a clunk.

Sherlock wobbled towards his chair. “John I think…” he stopped dead in his tracks, in the middle of the lounge, as if he had lost track of thought. His black brows crinkled as he rubbed his forehead. “Err… John I think…” he tried again, still shaking with cold. 

John cupped Violet’s face and saw her lips were almost a delicate shade of blue. She wouldn’t stop trembling. He took her pulse. Racing.

“Hypothermia,” Sherlock finally said, as if the word just came to him.

“Yes, disorientation and confusion are symptoms of hypothermia,” John said crisply, draping his jacket over Violet who clutched it gratefully. “Get that damn coat off, now” John ordered Sherlock who sullenly peeled his coat, scarf and leather gloves off and let them as well as Violet’s rucksack drop on the floor in a sodden heap. “You,” he turned back to Violet, “Get out of those wet things at once. I’ll be back.”

He ushered Sherlock into his bedroom. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Sherlock stripped the wet suit jacket and shirt off then started undoing his belt.

John ducked into the small half-bathroom attached to Sherlock’s room and took two flannels out of the small linen closet. He ran them under the tap, the water warm not blistering hot. When he came back out, carrying an armload of bath towels and the warm flannels, he found Sherlock sitting on the end of his bed. He had managed to get dry socks and his pajamas bottoms on (practical, they were woolen and warm) but was struggling with a t-shirt. He looked like an oversized infant trying to dress himself for the first time.

John sighed, put the towels and warm compresses on top of the chest of drawers and helped pull the shirt over Sherlock’s head, not even bothering to turn it right-side-out. He went back for the towels and compresses. Putting one of the compresses on Sherlock’s neck he said “Keep that there,” and then wrapped a towel around his shoulders.

“Am I out of shock blankets?” Sherlock quipped.

“Have you been nicking them from ambulances again?”

“Not recently.”

“Pity, they’d come in handy right now,” John handed Sherlock another towel. “Wrap this around your head.”

Sherlock clumsily started drying his damp hair. “Ugh, need a shower.”

“Not yet,” John said, wrapping the duvet around him. “Direct heat could send you into shock. Slow and steady warm-up… do you have any decaf tea?”

“Should be a tin of that dreadful green tea you like left. Useless, decaffeinated tea.”

“It’s good for you,” John scolded as he rummaged through Sherlock’s drawers, looking for something for Violet to wear. “Antioxidants. And caffeine is the worst thing for you two right now.”

“Boring. And what are you doing?”

“Can’t let our guest freeze to death either,” John said, pulling out a pair of pyjamas bottoms that were going to be far too long for her and an undershirt that could double as a dress once she put it on. When John opened the top drawer, Sherlock grunted “Don’t mess up my sock index.”

John shook his head, randomly selected a pair of socks, snagged Sherlock’s dressing gown off its hook, scooped up the towels and compress again and left Sherlock to his own devices.

Violet had not taken off her wet clothes, but was leaning against her dog, eyelids drooping. Gladstone rested his snort on top of her wet, dirty hair.

“Violet, hey,” John gave her a gentle shake, giving Gladstone a nervous glance.

“Let me sleep,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around her dog.

“In a bit,” John took his jacket off her shoulders. “Let’s get you warmed up first, yes?”

When he tried to take her wet leather jacket off, she jerked up and pushed him, hard. Gladstone bristled, a soft growl rumbled in the back of his throat.

John held his hands up. “I’m a doctor, I’m married and you need medical treatment.”

All the strength slipped away from her. She gave the dog a reassuring pat on the head then she let John help her undress. There was nothing romantic or lewd about him removing her soaked, cold clothing from her body. He averted his eyes as much as he could and once one wet garment was removed, a warm one was pulled on. Soon, Violet’s wet clothes were in a pile along with the damaged Belstaff and she was snug in Sherlock’s pyjamas, socks and dressing gown with her own warm compress on her neck and towels around her head and shoulders.

John also removed his gun from her keeping as well. As fatigued as she was, he doubted she noticed. He went up to his old room to fetch his duvet. When he returned, he was pleased to see some color return to her face and her shivering not as violent as before. “I’ll make tea,” he said as Sherlock shuffled out of his bedroom, cocooned in his duvet. He must be feeling better as well, if he was getting bored, alone in his bedroom. Sherlock made a move towards his chair, but John guided him towards the couch. “Body heat,” he explained. When both Sherlock and Violet shot him irritated looks, he said “Would you prefer a trip to the hospital instead?”

Violet gave Gladstone a nudge so he’d move over and then she scooted over, making room for Sherlock. Who grumbled and sank down next to her while saying “I thought body heat only worked if it was skin to skin contact?”

“I’d rather freeze to death,” Violet groused.

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you,” Sherlock said.

“Oh good, we actually agree on something today.”

“Yes, yes Christmas has come early for us all.”

John rolled his eyes as he went into the kitchen to make tea. But on the bright side, Sherlock’s barbed remarks were, for once, a positive sign. He was feeling better.

**

Mycroft preferred working late nights and early mornings because he liked the silence. And because he was just as nocturnal as his brother, but he would never admit that. Out loud.

Speaking of his idiot baby brother… “Has surveillance checked in?”

Anthea place the cup of tea in front of Mycroft, who didn’t bother to look up from the documents he was reviewing but did thank her quietly before she spoke: 

“Your brother and the American arrived at 221B approximately at ten to two.”

“Ah,” Mycroft put the report down. “And John Watson?”

“At the flat as well,” Anthea said, slight distaste in her voice. Probably remembering him hitting on her the first time they met. “Playing doctor I suppose.”

“Just as well,” Mycroft said. “Water must have been freezing when they hit.”

“Lucky they didn’t break their necks,” she said, walking around Mycroft’s desk to seat herself in the elegant chairs in front of the massive desk. “Your brother must be part cat, always landing on his feet, nine lives, devious and uncaring and all of those feline qualities.”

“Lucky I do not wring his neck for his foolishness,” Mycroft rubbed his eyes then reached for the tea. He could afford to lower his guard slightly around Anthea, but not by much. “The day will come, my dear Anthea when he will not land on his feet. And he has used up at least four of his nine lives.” He took a sip of his tea. “My brother is more of a liability now than ever before.”

 “Indeed,” Anthea said, taking her mobile out and beginning to text. “He thinks he’s invincible.”

If only Nelson would have lasted a few weeks more… Mycroft griped to himself.  “Come now, he always believed that,” he said out loud. “But the past few years, we could always count on Dr. Watson to pull back on Sherlock’s reins. Now that the good doctor is making an attempt at domesticity, well, we can’t assume he’ll be able to control my brother, can we now?” 

“Then use the American,” Anthea said practically, eyes glued to the mobile’s tiny screen.

“I beg your pardon?”

Anthea shrugged. “He’s fascinated with her. He hasn’t reacted like that around another person since he first met Dr. Watson. I read the files. She’s not an immediate threat. She’s just a means to an end. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“One of the few times I tell Sherlock the truth and he doesn’t believe me,” Mycroft took another sip of tea, grimacing. Cutting out sugar was going to be the death of him.

Anthea glanced up briefly from her mobile. “At the moment, he would argue with you if you told him the sky is blue. He is still angry with you.”

“I gathered that,” he said waspishly. “Tell me something useful, if you please.”

“She is not boring,” she said succinctly, attention back on the mobile. “She will keep him entertained and out of trouble. Plus, Sherlock may inadvertently do our work for us and pull the information we’re looking for out of her. She may not even realize how valuable what she knows truly is.” She smirked “Her government certainly is unaware, apparently.”  

Mycroft considered this. Risky. But Sherlock without a chaperone was riskier. John couldn’t be relied on anymore and it really wasn’t fair to the man, after all he had been through after the Fall and after what that villain Magnussen put him and Mary through. Not to mention the strain his friendship with Sherlock had to be putting on the marriage in the first place…

Violet Hunter could not leave the country. She could barely leave London. She had no passport, no driver’s license and now no access to the bank accounts in “Violet Smith’s” name. Face recognition would immediately flag her if she attempted to fly out. She had existed quietly and under the radar in England for years. The United States did not seem to be too terribly worried about her. Granted, they’d take her into custody the minute her feet touched American soil, but they weren’t about to deploy any Marine SEALS to come fetch her. Mycroft’s CIA contact sounded almost bored when he told Mycroft essentially Violet Hunter was England’s problem now, not America’s. Do what you want.

Bloody Americans.

Mycroft turned the matter over in his head. A disgraced American federal agent living a double life as a prim and prissy English office manager… not a spy, not an assassin, not a terrorist, not on any major watch lists… just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people… someone who knew too much. A profiler…

Someone who observed and came to conclusions based on those observations.

That was a concern to Mycroft. He knew why the Americans burned her and her team, but not everything that happened afterwards…. how much did she know about Jim Moriarty and what exactly did she do for the King Spider? Mycroft did have enough intelligence to know she had been one of the psychopath’s “freelancers” but she had vanished after The Fall. In her old life in America, she was more of an academic, a researcher and interrogator. It was a puzzle indeed.

And Sherlock loved puzzles.

The problem would be when Sherlock put the puzzle together and lose interest in her.

Still, Mycroft could not devise a better solution. Taking custody of her had been a last resort. He wanted to question her before Scotland Yard did. He could see some idiot, probably that twit Anderson (dear God how did that man get his job back?) contacting Interpol and the poor woman would be on a one-way flight to Guantanamo Bay, taking all of her useful knowledge with her. The Americans, consumed and overwhelmed with the Middle East and Russia, had no idea the webs Moriarty had woven through their government as well as England’s and France’s and Spain’s and most of Europe and Asia. The man was still just as powerful dead as alive. His name still invoked a reverent and fearful silence.

Mycroft wanted to burn the entire enterprise to the ground.

And not just for God and Country he thought vehemently. Caring was not an advantage but neither were debts owed.

He needed to clear his ledger. 

It was this or keeping the woman in a holding cell indefinitely, which would be a waste of tax payer money, really.

**

John woke up with a jerk, surprised to find himself in “his” chair at 221B Baker Street instead of his bed at the terrace house he shared with Mary. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, blinking owlishly. Noting the weak sunlight streaming in through the windows, he pulled his mobile out, checking the time. 6:41 AM.

No new texts. No missed calls.

Shit.

He ran his thumb over the touch screen, debating whether or not he should ring Mary again. His stomach fluttered. What if something happened to her?

No. She was fine. Just angry.

He texted Please call me. I love you. I’m sorry and hit Send. There was nothing more he could really say. He loved her, but… he looked at the sofa.

He had made Violet and Sherlock stay out in the lounge so he could keep an eye on them, keep periodically checking their pulses, keep giving them warm tea, keep them wrapped up.

When they both balked at kipping on the sofa (next to each other), he said it was either this or he was making them share Sherlock’s bed. Both looked utterly appalled at that idea. To John’s relief though, they stopped their whinging. They also mercifully stopped sniping at each other as well.

Looking at them now, he kicked himself for dozing off. Should have kept a better eye on them during the night. (A plunge into the Thames? As cold as it’s been? Seriously?) But, even in the dim light, neither one of them looked worse for wear. Sherlock’s long legs stretched out on the coffee table, his head tilted back against the sofa, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his face slack, the cheekbones and chin looking less sharp than normal.

Probably the first decent sleep he’s gotten in weeks.

Meanwhile Violet curled herself up around her dog. In the pale sunlight, her face softened and vulnerable, it was easy to imagine what she may have looked like as a very young girl. John pictured her as a small child in a too-big bed; arm draped over a cherished dolly or teddy bear, like it was now over her dog.

He tried to imagine Sherlock as a little boy and just… couldn’t.

Gladstone did not seem to mind being used as a giant furry pillow. In fact, the dog slept too, snoring slightly. John carefully got out of his chair, tiptoed to the slumber party on the sofa and gently pulled Violet’s dirty tangled hair off her neck to check her pulse. He paused for a slight moment, noticing an interesting scar on her throat, long and thin, maybe five centimeters long.

Knife his instincts told him. Someone held a knife to her throat, but why? He wondered as he put his two fingers on Violet’s neck, checking her pulse, which was normal, Thank God.

The dog also did not wake. Thank God.

He crept over and checked Sherlock’s pulse as well. He stirred slightly, but did not seem to wake up. His pulse was also back in the normal range, not racing scary-fast as it had been hours before when they had come back to the flat after their spontaneous dip into one of the dirtiest rivers in England.

John debated with himself. They were probably fine to leave on their own but he wasn’t sure if he’d be welcomed into his own home.  He checked his mobile again, which was stupid because he hadn’t felt it vibrate nor heard it ring.

Maybe it was a good thing Sherlock punted his last flat mate. I might need a place to live again he thought with a grimace as he sat down in “his” chair again.

He didn’t want a divorce, didn’t want to give up on his life with Mary.

He didn’t want to give up on his life with Sherlock either.

John looked at his mobile, clicked on an app, scrolling through files, found the one he was looking for, reassuring himself it was still there.

He stretched his own legs out, got as comfortable as possible in the chair and let himself drift off. No one was going anywhere anytime soon. Might as have a bit of sleep himself.

As he dozed off again, John’s mind drifted back to that night he met Lestrade at the pub with months after the Fall…

**

19 August 2011
St. Chad’s Place
Friday night
7:05 PM

 “So this… Cyril…”  John asked, feeling a bit more like himself than he had in months. The heavy sadness still weighed him down to be sure, but after Lestrade’s recent revelation, well, at least he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore either. “What about him?”  

 Lestrade held his hand out for his Smartphone again. John gave it back and Lestrade began thumbing through apps until he found the one containing his notes. “Cyril Morton had just moved in a few months back, no complaints, no problems, got along with the neighbors, paid rent on time, cash. Worked at one of the pubs that catered more to the tourists than the natives. No family.  Had a steady girlfriend, a Janice Carr, brunette, hazel eyes, nice girl, they all said. Neighbors thought she was some sort of fitness or yoga instructor but didn’t know much more about her.  Naturally we can’t locate her.”

“Of course you can’t. We sure she didn’t make that call?”

“Positive,” Lestrade said.

“Why so sure?”

Lestrade swiped through his Smartphone again, looking for a different app. When he found it, he fished out a pair of ear buds from his pockets. “Here, give it a listen…”

John took the Smartphone from Lestrade, stuck the tiny buds in his ears and pressed the Play icon:

“…  say again, please?” Lestrade sounded pleasant, accommodating. Humoring the caller.

“Do you think I’m stupid? I know you’re recording this and you’re trying to trace this. I’m on a prepay cell phone,” a female, American voice retorted. “And you will never hear this voice again so a recording is pointless.”

“Recording’s easier than writing,” Lestrade still sounded unruffled “Especially when you have crap handwriting like mine. So, you claim Moriarty is real?”

“I can prove it.”

“Well, then I’ll be more than happy to schedule an appointment to dis-“

“Two days before Sherlock Holmes’ murder, a man named Cyril Morton was found in the hallway of his Soho apartment with his throat slit, wrapped up in a shower curtain. His apartment was set on fire to destroy physical evidence, fingerprints, DNA, all of that.”

“Did you say Sherlock Holmes’ murder?” Lestrade sounded less sure.

“Moriarty was tying up loose ends before he goaded Holmes into jumping off the building. Morton was a loose end, but Moriarty was unraveling, too busy obsessing over Holmes to pay attention to details. He made mistakes. He left behind the knife he used to kill Morton. A knife with Morton’s blood and Moriarty’s fingerprints.”

“You know where the knife is,” Lestrade said slowly.

“In a paper sack, inside a locker, at King’s Cross,” the American woman said. “Number 221. That will prove there was no ‘Richard Brooks’, or at the very least, ‘Richard Brooks’ was a murderer, not an actor.”

“You said Sherlock’s murder…”

“It was pure psychological warfare. Morton gave Moriarty the information he needed to completely mind-fuck Holmes. Moriarty made Holmes believe if he didn’t commit suicide, Moriarty was going to murder three people he deeply cared about.”

“Sherlock Holmes didn’t care about anybody.” Lestrade said, uncertainly.

“That’s funny,” the American woman said icily “Because one of the people Moriarty was going to have killed was you.” When Lestrade didn’t respond, the strange woman exploded “I tried. I tried for two days, before he jumped, to get through the switchboards to get somebody, anybody to listen to me. To tell someone Holmes never hurt those kids, that Moriarty was real. When I was finally patched through to the lead detective, Sally Donovan?  I was ignored. I had the evidence, I was even willing to stick my neck out and meet her in person and I was ignored. I called her again, two hours before he jumped and she still ignored me and let a man die because her pride wouldn’t let her believe that maybe she was wrong, maybe she was making a terrible mistake. And you, you just sat by on the sidelines!  He thought you were his friend! He killed himself for you! And you did nothing.” When there was still no response from Lestrade, she said “Well, you can finally do something now even though it’s too little, too late.”

“Something…?” Lestrade said faintly.

“Clear his damn name. He’s your friend. Dead or alive, he’s still your friend so you owe him at least that,” When Lestrade didn’t answer she added “Oh, one last thing, you coward, Morton’s girlfriend is dead too but you won’t find her body.”

Lestrade cleared his throat “And why not?”

“Because I killed her,” and then there was silence. The call was over. 

With trembling hands, John took the ear buds out. “That… that true?” he whispered but he remembered sitting with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club, days before The Fall… how Mycroft asked him what he would do if he knew assassins had moved in across the street from them and John had quipped he was moving… “Oh my God… it must be true,” and he told Lestrade about that uncomfortable conversation with Sherlock’s brother.

Who had also sold Sherlock out to Moriarty, John remembered grimly. Damn him…

Lestrade took the mobile and ear buds back from John. His hands were none too steady either. “And he never told anybody,” he said, half-sorrowfully, half-angrily. “Goddamn him…”

Alone is what I have… alone protects me…

John picked up the memory stick again and turned it over in his hands. “What about the girlfriend? The yoga instructor?”

 “Nothing,” Lestrade said. “It’s as if she didn’t exist.”

John fiddled with the memory stick again. “You sure she’s not the tipster, the girlfriend?”

“No,” Lestrade snorted. “The neighbors all said she was a nice, polite British girl.”

“Could have faked the accent?”

“Please,” Lestrade gave John a pained look. “You’ve heard the Yanks aping our accents, asking how to get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and telling us to ‘Mind the Gap’. They can’t talk like us for shit. The neighbors were all positive the girlfriend was British.”

“What if she faked the American accent?” John wondered out loud. “Could you tell if someone faked an American accent? I don’t think I would spot the difference.”

“Hmm, maybe, dunno…” Lestrade put the ear buds back in his pocket. “Either way, there’s no trace of her. No social media, any existing photographs of her burned up in the fire in the flat. Morton is a dead end too, terrible pun, sorry, I’m tired,” Lestrade said. “We think ‘Cyril Morton’ must be some sort of alias as well, seeing that the tipster claimed he gave Moriarty the information to push Sherlock over the edge… ah, damn it,” Lestrade winced when he realized he made another horrible Freudian slip. “Christ, what a balls-up this is.”

“Yeah…” John said, trying to decide which emotion was going to win out, rage or sadness.

Neither, Sherlock would insist. Bitterness was a paralytic... don’t get sentimental.

“No matter what,” Lestrade continued “It still doesn’t make any sense, why an absolute stranger would try to get involved? Make more sense to run than to call the cops…”

What would Sherlock think?

The thought came unbidden, unexpected. Like a sucker punch to the face. Still John ordered himself to let what Sherlock had taught him rise to the surface, no matter how painful it was to think about him… to even hear his name… to imagine his voice was breathtakingly brutal…

Kindness of strangers is sentimental twaddle, John, a bedtime story we tell ourselves… the familiar baritone resonated in John’s head. Strangers do not perform random acts of kindness for other strangers unless there is immediate gratification in the action, even if it’s just a brief moment of self-congratulations for performing a good deed....

“She knew him,” John said. “People just don’t … put their necks out like that for strangers. Not when someone as barking mad as Moriarty could come after you. She knew Sherlock, Greg.”

“OK, but how? I’m not disagreeing with you. Just trying to wrap my head around the idea… he didn’t have any friends except for you, maybe Mrs. Hudson. He tolerated me and Molly Hooper at best. Hated his brother. Never talked about his father, barely mentioned Mummy. No one was really sure which way he swung because he didn’t date. So how could a barman’s girlfriend know Sherlock Holmes?”

“Dunno, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. A stranger would not try to save him. For God’s sake, his own brother didn’t even...”

Don’t be bitter.

Don’t be sentimental.  

“OK,” Lestrade said. “It might be an exercise in futility, but I’ll have checks run on old schoolmates… he never really held a proper job so won’t have to do an employment check…”

“Old cases,” John said promptly. “That we… he consulted on. I’ll start going through old files, re-read my blog posts and any comments, see if anything turns up, rings any bells.”

 “Good,” Lestrade grunted. “Does he have any other family other than Mycroft and his parents?”

“If he does, I have no idea,” John said honestly, realizing how little he knew about Sherlock’s personal life. Lived with him for nearly two years and never really talked about the past, his life before moving to London. Sherlock always lived in the present moment, which had been fine with John because the Past meant Afghanistan and John did not want to relive that. “Maybe she knew Sherlock through Cyril?”

“Doubt it,” Lestrade said “but it’s worth checking into.” He checked his watch. “I should go…” but he didn’t move. “Wife’n I are on the outs again,” he muttered.

“You know,” John said, cracking his first smile in probably months. “I never did get a drink.”

“Well,” Lestrade said. “Let’s remedy that. My shout, OK?”

“OK.”

**

14 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Saturday
8:24 AM

Thirst roused Sherlock from sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, wondering why his ears felt like they were still stuffed full of cotton.

The explosion he remembered as he became more alert. Probably still have water in my ears as well.  He then remembered the plunge into the Thames killed his mobile.

Will have to pick up a new one today. Will have to pay full price since I’m still under contract plus I used my insurance last month when I set that mobile on fire… wonder why they acted like they didn’t believe me when I said it was an accident? It WAS an accident after all… I accidentally bumped the wrong button on the timer, so it didn’t go off in time when I was experimenting how high of temperature a mobile phone could withstand… weeks of research down the drain… tiresome.  

But first, a glass of water. His mouth and throat felt like parchment paper.

He rubbed his eyes and looked around his flat. Across the way, John slept in his chair, looking uncomfortable. Of course John wouldn’t abandon his post; he would keep watch over the invalids… even though something happened to him last night, after they had gotten separated… there was the beginning of a shiner blooming around his eye… Sherlock felt his throat and chest tighten… Later… he told himself. He would deduct who attacked John later and deliver retribution. For now, John was safe and he was here and that’s all that mattered.

Still… the way he held his mobile in his hand, even in sleep was interesting…Sherlock carefully got up, letting the duvet and towels fall to the floor (John always kept the flat too damn hot, but after last night, was probably a potential life-saving maneuver). He quietly crept over to John. He leaned forward, not touching him, but getting as close as he could to John’s Smartphone. He observed the ringer was On. John could have safely gone home hours ago, the hypothermia threat was well past. No… John stayed because he was waiting for Mary to call or text. John stayed because he didn’t know if he had her permission to come home. 

Oh John, Sherlock thought ruefully as he straightened up. If only you’d realize you are home.

That thought made him uncomfortable, so he quickly dismissed it and turned his attention to the balled-up figure lying on the couch.

Ignoring his dry mouth, he crept back over to the strange woman curled up on his sofa. Unsettling … seeing someone in his home, wearing his clothes. The last time that had happened was with Irene Adler and…well… that hadn’t exactly ended on a positive note, had it?

He got closer but then backed off slightly. She smelled bad, but he couldn’t really criticize her for that since he smelled equally foul, thanks to their impromptu dip in the heavily polluted Thames.

Maybe a shower trumps tea or drink of water…? Surely it would be safe now? Sherlock wondered, remembering how adamant John was about how dangerous direct heat was in their condition. He felt disgusting. Then his eyes drifted to his coat, laying in a muddy heap on the floor and considered weeping for a moment.

He knew he had finally slipped back into his old life once he slipped his coat on.

It was one of the few gifts he had gotten from his father he had actually liked.

It’s just a coat, don’t get sentimental, he told himself, looking away from the coat and down at the end of the couch… where her dog was, sleeping soundly. On top of Violet’s messenger bag.

Well played, clever girl Sherlock felt a smile pull on his lips. As the old saying goes… let sleeping dogs lie…  But… he eyed the rucksack strap peeking out from underneath his ruined coat. There are no old saying about luggage now, is there?

Ignoring a real physical pang of regret when he touched the sodden fabric of the Belstaff, he crouched down and pulled out the rucksack from underneath the coat, unzipped it and started prodding around.

Everything was inside sealed freezer bags so nothing had been destroyed by their fall into the river. A pair of yoga bottoms. A pair of khakis trousers. A jumper, two t-shirts (one black, one white), two camisoles… things women wore under their jumpers and blouses for some reason.  Brassieres, socks and knickers, still in unopened plastic packages. Two prepaid mobiles (…interesting…), money, both American dollars and British notes plus some sort of prepaid cash debit card. Feminine hygiene products (Honestly…how do women deal with that… inconvenience every month? Best not think of it. Delete.)

Sherlock continued to rifle through her bag quietly. Easy to deduce she was a sensible woman. She packed light but practical. She definitely had more than he did when he first left England for his extended exile. But nothing impractical. Or sentimental. Interesting…

He had been wrong about the trainers, but there were a pair of black, low-heeled slip-on shoes. There were also energy bars, those tasteless wafers fitness fanatics devour, but full of nutrients. Perfect on-the-run food.

Then he found the knives, two, precisely. One was a switchblade, the other a serrated boot knife, still in its sheath, perfect to attach to a long pair of boots and then tug the trousers over.

Very interesting! He wondered where her gun was or if it had been lost in the explosion.

He pawed through her bag now like an excited puppy. Toothbrush, hairbrush, hair-ties, deodorant. Another pair of fake eyeglasses. A small bag of shampoo, soap, toothpaste and lotions, like the ones provided at hotels. Another small bag of basic cosmetics, lip color, small compact of eye color, small compact of face powder, mascara and that glop woman smear all over their faces… foundation? Whatever, it was revolting. Sherlock never liked cosmetics. The smell alone was enough to off put him, but it also made deducting women slightly more challenging than men since that slop hid many clues: scars, birthmarks, spots, wrinkles.

Freckles.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. Violet still slept, all of her artifice washed away, except for her dyed hair, of course, but the curl was plainly evident now. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were distinctly lighter than her chestnut hair and a small spray of freckles decorated her cheekbones and bridge of her nose. She had crow’s feet and smile lines but she didn’t look like a crone or a hag, for God’s sake. She looked like she was in her late thirties, early forties.

By the way, Mr. Holmes, I’m thirty-nine, the exact same age as you… Jackass…

Why must people take it so personally when I describe them? He sulked to himself as he zipped the rucksack up again and shoved it back underneath his soiled coat. I hear and read how they describe my looks and it does not offend me...

No. It did not hurt him when they attacked his appearance…

Suicide of a Fake Genius…

OK, that hurt. He remembered finding that nauseating tabloid on Mycroft’s desk, while waiting for his brother to come in so he could talk to him after the Fall… after his first faked death.

The second one was of course to trick Mycroft into believing he was dead. He had needed Mycroft’s help to craft the first fake death, of course.

He wondered how long Mycroft believed his lie and how long it took him to figure out the truth. He wondered how long Mycroft was going to be angry about it.

As many times as he sold me out, even when we were children, all the times he offered me up as a sacrificial lamb onto the Altar of the Greater Good… he deserved it, deserved to suffer he told himself savagely. Still deserves it, the icy bastard.

He stared at the sleeping woman on his sofa. You can’t have her, Mycroft, he thought as he flounced off to take a proper hot shower and put on clean clothes.  

And I regret nothing.

He paused at his bedroom door… except hurting John… of course.

He turned and plodded back towards the kitchen for that drink of water he had wanted when he first woke up.

**

5 November 2011
An undisclosed location in London
Saturday night
11:54 PM

Mycroft preferred working late nights and early mornings because he liked the silence. And because he was just as nocturnal as his brother, but he would never admit that. Out loud.

Speaking of his idiot baby brother… “Has surveillance checked in?”

Anthea place the cup of tea in front of Mycroft, who didn’t bother to look up from the documents he was reviewing and did not thank her.

“No,” she said softly as she rounded his desk.

Mycroft looked up sharply. Carefully he put his papers down. “He was supposed to land at Charles de Galle two hours ago.”

Anthea sat down. For once, she wasn’t bloody texting. “The handlers have been instructed to call your direct line with any news.”

Mycroft ran his hands down his face. This was not happening. “How is it possible for a team of MI-6 agents to lose one man on a private jet en route to Paris?”  

“He was on the plane, Mr. Holmes,” Anthea said, “We both saw him board the plane.”

“This is my brother we’re talking about,” Mycroft said. “He made the entire world believe he jumped off the roof of a major hospital…” He rubbed his temples. “Leave.”

Anthea did not argue. She simply stood and slipped out, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Alone, Mycroft allowed himself a rare display of anger by viciously knocking the tea cup out of the saucer, just for the satisfaction of hitting something, causing damage, destroying something… he watched it bounce on the edge of his desk, fall to the floor and shatter.

Damn you Sherlock, he thought ferociously You selfish, spoiled, unrepentant bastard.

Despite the rage (or because of it) his heart pounded rapidly. Underneath the rage, fear swam back and forth What if something really happened this time, what if something has gone horribly wrong… I hate him, my brother. I truly do, but I love him too and my world will be grey without him… and it’s my fault he’s in this mess in the first place. Should have had Moriarty killed in his cell when I had the chance… but no… we needed that damn code. A code that, in the end, wasn’t real after all. Moriarty had the last laugh… but I can’t rule out the possibility that somewhere, my brother is enjoying a hearty laugh at my expense as well… I need his handlers to check in with me…

His landline rang. The secure one.

Dread pooling in his stomach, he picked up the receiver. “Holmes.”

“Stormcrow.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. That was the code word for Something Has Gone Terribly Wrong. Worst case scenario. “Thank you,” he said softly and with shaking hands, hung up the receiver.

He leaned back in his chair, an unfamiliar stinging in his eyes, a burning in his throat. No… it cannot be so…we were careful, we planned every detail… further back than even Anthea realizes. We’ve been planning this from the first press conference after Sherlock solved the The Reichenbach Falls case… I’m surprised John fell for that… so out of character for Sherlock to agree to a press conference… but, after I realized what I had done and what Moriarty could do, would do… what choice did I have but to team up with my brother to lure the Spider out?

I honestly thought what I told Moriarty was harmless. How could have I made such a grievous error? Sherlock can spot a killer by looking at the dust on someone’s shoes, how could I have thought telling anecdotes about our childhood could be so dangerous…

Because I thought Sherlock and I were the only ones… I never dreamed…. Never imagined…

Mycroft leaned forward, elbows on desk, hands covering face, shoulders shuddering…

Remembering…

Sherlock, small for his age, skinny and two weeks shy of his sixth birthday, bashfully stuck his head into his bedroom. His voice, a little boy’s soprano with no hint to the baritone coming to him later in life, was soft and timid. Completely out of character for the bratty little show-off…

“Mycroft, can you come play with me, like we used before you went off to Eton?... Well, none of the other kids at my school will talk to me anymore except to say I’m a freak and I say too many big words and their mums and dads wouldn’t like it if they saw them with me… so it’s been dreadfully boring and lonely without you, you see…”

“Mycroft, what’s wrong with me? The other kids don’t like me and I don’t understand…I didn’t do anything bad, I swear I didn’t but the teacher keeps telling Mummy and Papa I’m different and they’ve had so many rows since you’ve left… can’t I come with you to your school? I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, I promise, I’ll just sit in back of the room and read like I do in church…” 

Mycroft, what’s wrong with me?

Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?

All lives end. All hearts are broken…

Mycroft sat up, fished a pristine handkerchief from his suit pocket and neatly dried his eyes. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and got up to pick up the pieces of the broken tea cup.

Because that’s what he did, Mycroft. I clean up messes, all the broken things…

He would receive the official dossier soon enough which would explain why the “Stormcrow” code was given and why his brother was dead. For real this time.

He better be, Mycroft thought with grim humor as he dropped the broken tea cup pieces in the bin. Because if he’s not, if this is one of his games, I’ll kill him myself.

… Caring is not an advantage.

**

14 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Saturday morning
10:59 AM

Violin music startled both Violet and John out of their deep sleeps, some ballad with distinct Gaelic influence (Classical music had been boring him lately). John scrambled around looking wildly for the mobile he had fallen asleep holding. Violet shoved her disheveled hair out of her face, trying to orientate herself.

“What time is it?” she asked thickly.

Sherlock stopped playing. He had showered, shaved and now wore one of his impeccable dress shirts and trousers, the matching jacket lying over “his” chair. “Eleven o’clock,” he informed them before touching the bow to the strings again. “Also, I took your beast out to relieve himself so he wouldn’t make a mess on the rug,” he wrinkled his nose at the dog, who evidently had taken a shine to the detective because he lay near Sherlock’s bare feet, tail thumping, tongue lolling out. The bloodstains were gone from his muzzle as well.

“You also gave him people-food, which he’s not supposed to have,” Violet tried to run her fingers through her knotted hair and failed. “Congratulations, you have a new best friend.”

Meanwhile, John, in a frenzy, still searched for his mobile, ignoring everything Sherlock and Violet said “Eleven o’clock? Eleven o’clock, oh my God…” he stuck his hands in-between the chair cushions and chair. “Where is my mobile? Did my wife call you… no, your mobile probably is ruined from the river water, dammit…”

Annoyed, Sherlock put the bow and violin down again. “It’s on the coffee table, John. Mary texted. I responded.”

“Oh God, no you didn’t,” John nearly tripped over his feet, scrambling to the coffee table.

“I think this is where I get to say ‘I told you so’,” Violet said sweetly.

John shot her a filthy look before grabbing his mobile, scrolling through the text messages, finding his last message:

Please call me. I love you. I’m sorry.

Where are you? She had finally replied. No I love you too. Just Where are you?

Then he read Sherlock’s “helpful” text back to Mary: 221B Baker Street – SH.

Why isn’t John responding?

Sleeping – SH

Tell him he can sleep there permanently then.

Don’t be so melodramatic. I suffered two medical emergencies, one yesterday afternoon and one last night and he stayed up the night tending to me. Now I am letting him rest before sending him on his way. It’s only fair, surely you can comprehend that - SH

It would be completely unnecessary for Violet to say I told you so at this point. John envisioned all of his possessions in boxes on the front stoop of the terrace house .

“Sherlock,” John measured his words very carefully “You should have woken me up instead of responding to Mary’s text. We had a row-“

“Yesterday morning, yes I know,” Sherlock stopped playing again. He fidgeted with the bow as he spoke “You were not angry because I woke you, you’re a morning person. You usually rise automatically at five o’clock in the morning anyway due to your years in the military. You were angry because you and Mary had been arguing before you answered the door.”

“Because you came over unannounced and kept ringing the door chime incessantly.”

“I can leave if you two need a minute,” Violet interrupted them.

They ignored her “You just made everything worse; you probably made her even angrier than she already was when you told her she was being melodramatic-“

“Why do statements of facts offend people?” Sherlock was genuinely perplexed. “She was clearly over-reacting. She needed to stop.”

“Word connotations,” John said through gritted teeth. “We’ve discussed this before. Certain words make people feel certain ways. Melodramatic is not a very good word to use around an upset wife. People think melodramatic is a put-down word.”

“I wasn’t putting her down! I was describing how she was acting!”

“Oh Jesus,” John groaned.

“Yeah… so, I’m going to go take a shower,” Violet got off the sofa, grabbing her messenger bag. “Where’s my backpack?”

Sherlock pointed with his bow to his coat, still on the floor. Violet pulled the too-long pajamas bottoms up so she wouldn’t trip and went to retrieve her rucksack, lying underneath the coat. She crinkled her nose at the river smell her bag and his coat retained and tried hurrying out of the lounge, but she stumbled on the turn-ups of the pajamas bottoms anyway. Muttering curses to herself, she hiked up the bottoms again and, with arms burdened with bags, walked straight into Sherlock’s bedroom, slamming the door.

“Interesting…” Sherlock murmured.

“What bright and shiny object caught your eye, now Sherlock?” John grumbled, seeing that familiar look on Sherlock’s face, the “Bloodhound Caught a Scent” face.

“She didn’t go into the main bathroom, she went into my room.”

“So?”

“You didn’t tell her about the small bath connected to my bedroom, did you?”  

“No,” John said crossly, the paused. “No,” he repeated, quietly. “Sherlock, I need to talk to you. There’s somethi-“

Then there was a sharp knock on the front door “Yoo-hoo, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson sounded very displeased. “I need a word with you, young man. I know you’re home, I just saw you outside my window With A Dog. You know there’s a ‘No Pets’ policy here. And I don’t like dogs!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jerked his head at John, indicting he should get the door then lifted the violin up to his chin again.

As John walked to the door, his mobile buzzed. He read it quickly, while Mrs. Hudson banged on the door, shouting to let her in This Minute.

The text wasn’t from Mary, like he hoped, but Mycroft.

Oh hooray, Mycroft, John thought as he started to read:   

Tell my idiot brother the American is officially his problem until further notice. She has been remanded into his custody. He is responsible for her and all her actions. He WILL report all said actions and any pertinent findings directly to me - MH

John opened the door and Mrs. Hudson stormed inside just as Violet came out into the lounge again. She had taken off the pyjamas pants, his t-shirt just long enough on her to cover her hips and thighs. Barely. “Sherl- oh…” his name died on her lips as she saw Mrs. Hudson’s inquisitive look. “Hello,” Violet said, quickly reverting back to speaking with a British accent, looking back and forth at John and Sherlock, silently begging for help.

It was comedic gold watching Mrs. Hudson’s face convey confusion, concern and then the apparent leap to false conclusion. “Sherlock,” she said, clasping her hands together in pleasure. “Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?”

“What?” Sherlock said, bow and violin falling limply at his sides.

It took every ounce of willpower John possessed not to double-over laughing. To say the look on both Violet and Sherlock’s faces was priceless was the biggest understatement in the world.

Poor Mrs. Hudson; she positively glowed with visible joy, smiling widely at Sherlock. Of course, to an outsider, to the casual observer, what else could it mean when an attractive woman walked out of a man’s bedroom, with bed head, wearing his only his shirt?

Never ever going to let him live this down, John thought with wicked delight Ever. 

As Sherlock glowered at the half-dressed Violet, he couldn't help thinking Oh not again… Women…repetitive… predictable… boring… ugh…

Sherlock screwed up his face then, unhappily remembering his… dalliance with that dim two-faced trollop… what was her name? Juliet? Janice? Janine? Something with a J… he thought he had deleted that whole miserable experience. Apparently he just deleted her name.  

“John, did you know?” Mrs. Hudson asked while Sherlock attempted deleting the whole Magnussen’s-PA-Whose-Name-I-Think -Starts-With-A-J Affair completely from his mind palace.

Meanwhile, Violet looked back and forth between the doctor and the detective, waiting for one of them to correct Mrs. Hudson, her face looking more and more panic-stricken when neither one did so.

“Me, err, no, just got here,” John lied. Sherlock gave him a piercing look, trying to deduct why he was lying. “Mycroft just texted me, said you haven’t been answering his calls?” He handed his mobile to Sherlock, who shifted the bow to the hand holding the violin and took the mobile with the other. He read the text from Mycroft quickly as John continued to lie to the poor landlady, who looked as if Christmas and her birthday had arrived all on the same glorious day.

 “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in to see if maybe we’d go down to Speedy’s for an early lunch and well, walked in on domestic bliss.” Violet flushed a deep scarlet while Sherlock looked apoplectic, glaring daggers at John. Who, meanwhile, continued on sweetly “Guess that will teach me to Call Ahead Before Just Dropping By, won’t it?” He gave Sherlock an angelic smile and received a glower in return. John was fairly certain if Sherlock could have gotten away with beating him to death with his bow, he would have without hesitation.

Completely worth it.

“Well, this is… I am just… oh Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson beamed at him like a proud robin who just watched her baby bird take his first flight. “I’m so pleased. When were you going to tell me?”

“It’s a fairly recent development,” he mumbled, fidgeting with his bow, his fair cheeks starting to turn just the slightest shade of pink. Sherlock Holmes… was blushing. And squirming.

John had to turn his back to hide his mirth. OK, so maybe he shouldn’t be giggling over the fact they were now harboring a fugitive from the United States of America per a directive from the United Kingdom… but seeing Sherlock’s abject discomfort on top of seeing him utterly tongue-tied and flustered, in short, was hilarious.

And it serves him right too. The prat, he thought affectionately as he regained composure and turned around, his face the very picture of innocence.

Meanwhile, Violet, whose face was still an interesting shade of mauve, also managed to salvage her dignity. She smiled at Mrs. Hudson and extended her hand. Mrs. Hudson shook it readily, a huge smile still on her face.

“Forgive me; I was taken off guard,” she gave John a look that could only be described as “the Stink Eye”. “I’m Violet Smith, and yes, this… umm… happened faster than either of us anticipated… you see, my flat caught fire last night and well…” she looked embarrassed. Maybe she wasn’t even acting at this point. “Neither one of us are fans of rushing things but, we didn’t really have much of a choice. Did we?” she gave John a tight, bitchy smile, her eyes flashing the same murderous intent towards John as Sherlock’s did.

Still worth it.  

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson said “Wait, did you live in the City? It was all over the news this morning, huge fire, gas leak? Spread like mad, two city blocks it took out, they said.”

Sherlock and Violet both exchanged quick glances and then Sherlock said simply “We were lucky to leave when we did.” He seemed entranced by his shoes at this point.

“Yeah you were,” John said while thinking Wait, was the explosion that bad? I only remember one building, Violet’s, blowing up… sure the other buildings were old and caught fire, but two city blocks wiped out? How?  He walked over to Sherlock and mouthed “Two?” to him as he held his hand out for his mobile. Sherlock shrugged slightly, shook his head, brows beetled together as he tossed the mobile back to John.

Mrs. Hudson missed John and Sherlock’s silent conversation because the Alsatian captured her attention. “So,” Mrs. Hudson gestured towards the dog, who padded over to sit between Sherlock and Violet, apparently deciding to join the party. “This is yours, then?”

Violet swiftly knelt next to the dog “Yes, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t just leave him and it was too late to try and find a hotel that allows pets. As soon as I can find somewhere else to go that will accept dogs, I will, but I swear he won’t be any problems, he doesn’t bark, he’s housebroken-“

But Mrs. Hudson did not pay any mind to the rest of Violet’s speech “Go? Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it. I’m sure he’s a very well-mannered dog.”

“He’s definitely well-trained,” John deadpanned. 

“Well then,” Mrs. Hudson looked happier than she had in ages. “It’s settled. I’m sure we can overlook the No Pets Policy, in light what just happened.”

Yes, especially since I own the building, Sherlock thought, remunerating over his brother’s text, Mrs. Hudson’s information regarding last night’s “gas leak” explosions and the observations he had been making about “Miss Smith” since she woke up. “It is appreciated,” he said quietly.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson clucked, realizing something. “Did you lose everything in the fire? Let me go through my wardrobe to see if I can find some things for you to wear. Doubt my trousers and skirts will fit you, skinny as a rail, you are, but at least some jumpers and a warm coat.”

“Um, thank you bu-“

Mrs. Hudson cut Violet off. “And tea. And sandwiches. I have some crisps and biscuits too. Could cook some beans… yes that would be lovely in this chill weather, seems like Spring will never get here, will it? Good thing I did the shopping yesterday. I’ll bring the lunch up just this once and Sherlock Holmes, you WILL eat something,” she gave him a stern look. Then she gave a sweet smile to Violet “But, like I said, it’s just this once, because of everything that’s happened to you last night. But just so you know, I’m-“

“Not the Housekeeper,” John and Sherlock said in unison.

“Right,” Violet said, a bit overwhelmed.

“Oh my, Sherlock?” she noticed the Belstaff coat in a heap on the floor. “Didn’t I just get this cleaned for you? The messes you make…”

“It might be past saving this time,” Sherlock said, real regret evident in his voice.

Mrs. Hudson scooped it up any way. “We’ll give it a go anyway. Oh, John, they were able to get those stains out of your scarf, I can bring it up when I bring up the lunch. Speedy’s? Honestly, John,” she patted him on the cheek. John couldn’t help but smile. “My meals are always better than theirs, wouldn’t you agree? Will Mary be joining us?”

“Ah no, and I should really get going… let the love birds nest and all of that,” John said lightly.

Sherlock gave John a completely homicidal look while Violet mouthed obscenities at him when Mrs. Hudson’s back was turned.

“I’ll be back later tonight,” John said cheerfully, going to retrieve his jacket and scarf. “You two will be decent, won’t you? I’ve seen more of the two of you than necessary.”

If looks could kill, John Watson would have been dead twice over from the glares he received from Sherlock and Violet.

Completely, totally, utterly worth it.

He was whistling when he left Baker Street.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Sign of Deviance

Shortly after John waltzed out of the flat, Mrs. Hudson bustled out, verbally ticking off all the things she needed to do for Sherlock and his new “girlfriend”. Both Sherlock and Violet kept silent and still for a moment, bewildered and at a complete loss for words.

Finally Violet blinked, as if trying to get her world back in focus. “What… just happened?” She dropped the British accent. She wrapped her arms around her dog. Gladstone leaned into her, nuzzled her and gave her cheek a lick.

“Apparently me and you are an… item now,” Sherlock spat out.

“No shit, Sherlock, I got THAT,” Violet snapped. She stood up, patted Gladstone on the head, then, in German, told him to go lay down. As the dog trotted off, she faced Sherlock; arms crossed “What did the text on John’s phone say? Was it from Mycroft?”

“Yes, it was from Mycroft and it said that you are mine.”

“Excuse me?” her eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

“The British government has remanded you into my custody. In short, I am held responsible for your safety and for any of your actions, positive or negative. I believe the subtext of his message is they are too dim or too lazy to do the work themselves, most likely both, therefore I am expected to extract whatever information you may possess that makes you interesting enough to kill.”

“You’re not law enforcement or a government official, how is any of that even legal?”

“I do believe you have existed outside of the law, Special Agent Hunter,” he emphasized her real surname and old job title “For quite some time now. I assure you, this is a far more preferable alternative that what my brother probably originally had in store for you.”

“I know, I get that, but why did John lie to that poor woman? I mean, it works as a cover story... kind of… well, not really… oh my God, who am I kidding, worst cover story ever. And now your poor ‘Not A Housekeeper’ is planning our wedding. Probably picking out baby names too.”  

God save us all, Sherlock recoiled at the idea of fatherhood. “It amused him,” he said sourly.

“Great, well his amusement is going to get us both killed,” Violet rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache build while still feeling exhausted from last night’s adventures and unbearably grubby from falling into the river. Her skin itched, she craved a shower. “Why didn’t you correct him?”

He paused. Why didn’t he correct John? He could have told Mrs. Hudson… what? She was a client? Just a friend? Even he realized what it looked like when she walked out of his bedroom wearing just his t-shirt, her hair hopelessly tousled and untidy. “She wouldn’t have believed me,” he said slowly. “You really chose an inopportune moment to exit my room with bare legs.”

“You’re blaming me?” Violet scowled. “All I wanted to know was if there were any clean towels. And I was tired of tripping on the cuffs of those damn pajamas bottoms, you walking flag pole. So I took them off then realized there were no towels in your bathroom. Then I came out.”

“How did you know there was a small bath attached to my room?”

Violet fell silent.

“I never showed you around the flat, never gave you a tour and yet you went to my room when you said you were going to shower. The master bath has both a shower and bathtub, but there is only a small shower in the one attached to my room,” a slow, predatory smile curled Sherlock’s lips. “You’ve been here before.”

She squared her shoulders. “I told you last night you and I need to have a very long talk.”

“Indeed, unfortunately now is not the time as Mrs. Hudson will be here in a few moments and you look and smell frightful. There are clean towels in a wash basket in my room. I never got around to putting them away in the linen cupboard.”

As he turned away so he could go back to playing his violin, she said, in disbelief “Oh my God. You… You’re actually enjoying this!”

He turned around. “Of course,” he said, surprised. “I said so last night. I honestly haven’t had this much fun in ages. It’s been so boring recently.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” Violet shook her head.

“Careful Miss Smith,” Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin again and touched the bow to the strings. “Your American is showing.”

Determined to get in the last word, she crossed her arms, jutted her chin up and lifted her eyebrows as she announced “You didn’t correct Mrs. Hudson because you didn’t have the heart to; she is genuinely happy you ‘met someone’. She has no ulterior motives, she’s not hoping for grandkids or that you’ll move out of here to start a life with a new family. She’s sincerely happy something good, something normal happened to you for change and you couldn’t bring yourself to tell her she was wrong because you didn’t want to upset her.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. “Impressive,” he demurred. “And you deduced this how?”

“Please. Like that was even a challenge. You couldn’t look her in the eyes once while she was here.” With a toss of her tangled hair, she said “Remember, you’re not the only profiler in this apartment anymore.” 

“You profile,” he sneered. “I deduce.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” she turned on her heel and walked through his bedroom doorway, declaring “Same damn thing in the end,” before slamming the door again.

Sherlock touched the bow to the strings “Not the same,” he muttered.

**

Meanwhile, John’s good mood did not dissipate as he took a cab home. Even the weather seemed to be cooperating, clear, sunny skies, not nearly as bitterly cold as it had been the past few days.

He had the cab stop for a moment at a nearby florist’s shop. He didn’t buy roses, too cliché plus too frightfully expensive. Instead he purchased a sunny bouquet of bright cheerful daisies, to match his mood. He wasn’t even worried if all his possessions were boxed up and waiting for him on the stoop. He’d simply bring them back inside and put them away where they belonged.

Order. His life was finally going to have some order and balance and it was magnificent.

He walked the rest of the way home, it was only a few blocks away and the walk did him good. He had been a bit stiff from sleeping in “his” chair at 221B Baker and the walk helped him stretch his tight muscles. But now, he was walking to his home, to his wife… much better than “his” chair, truly. Infinitely better.

His possessions weren’t boxed up and on the stoop, of course.  He let himself in and called out “Mary?” He shrugged off his coat, (mindful that his gun he took from Violet was in his coat pocket, safety off, but still…). He switched the flowers from one hand to the other as he removed the coat. “Mary? Are you here?” he carefully laid his coat on one of the armchairs.

Mary came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips were pursed. She was ready, no, aching for a row. “What happened to your face?” She demanded. “This is why I hate you running about all hours at night with Bloody Sherlock -I’m-Better-Than-Everyone-Holmes! Do you have any idea how worried and upset I’ve been? Do you even care?” she shouted, not even noticing the flowers he brought her. “On top of that, that brute you call a friend send me a hateful text telling me I’m being melodra-“

John stopped her by pulling her close and kissing her fully on the mouth.

Taken aback, Mary dropped her dish towel.

John realized he hadn’t kissed her like this, properly, passionately, in a very long time. He felt her surprise, then resist, then respond, then push away. “No,” she said, trying to back away but he kept one arm around her waist, holding her close as he could.

“Shh, shh, no listen, please. I know you want to shout at me and I deserve it, I’ve been a crap husband lately but I promise you, our biggest problem is going to resolve itself soon.” He showed her the flowers “Very soon.”

She took the flowers, using them as a barrier between him and her. “That’s a big promise to make,” she said, a bit breathless, partially because she hadn’t expected him to pounce on her like that, partially because she was still very angry with him. “How can you-“

John touched her face, grazing her cheek and chin with his thumb. She was so lovely, so dear to him. How could he have lost sight of this, this beautiful, loving, brilliant woman who held him together when his life shattered to pieces after The Fall. That had been real, despite everything that happened after Sherlock’s Rise, Mary’s dedication to coaxing John back into the world of the living had been real.

As Mary fell silent at his touch, he told her “Sherlock is not going to need me so much in the near future.”

“Really?” Skeptically, she eyed him over the daisies, eyebrows lifted high.

John couldn’t blame her for her disbelief. “Really,” he said, leaning forward, crushing the daisies just slightly. But he had to lean forward, had to kiss her, butterfly-light kiss on her lips, then on her nose, her left cheek and then her right. How is it possible to live with someone day in and day out and miss them desperately? He wondered.

“Why is that?” she said, breathless for other reasons now but still trying to stay angry.

He breathed into her ear “Because he met Someone.”

“What?” She pulled away, just slightly, so she could look at him properly “You mean, he… Sherlock Holmes… fancies someone?”

Now his lightheartedness started to slip away because he knew he was about to look into the face of the only woman he truly loved, the light of his life, and lie. But the truth was too mad, too wild to be believed; John was still having trouble getting his head around what just happened in the last forty-eight hours.

However, he was beginning to understand a bit why Sherlock hesitated to tell him all the details regarding his Great Hiatus.  

So he lied, because the lie was believable and the truth was not. And he wanted Mary to be able to say No under any circumstance if she was ever asked if she knew who Special Agent Violet Hunter was. Especially if anyone ever suspected who ABRA was…

“Yes,” he said, holding her even closer, Yes, he fancies someone,” he kissed her again, suddenly afraid. Afraid someone could snatch her away. Hurt her… God please, no he offered a brief prayer. Not Mary, never Mary.

“Girl or boy” Mary blurted out, then said apologetically, “That was rude.” 

“Darling, I saw the texts he sent you this morning and gave him a piece of my mind so you’re entirely entitled to be rude,” he held her closer still. Felt her soft body against his, wanted her closer to him still. Wanted her… really wanted to stop talking about Sherlock and his new partner… really wanted to remedy how he had been neglecting his wife but…first things first:

“And, yes, girl. He fancies a girl. Well, woman, really. She’s no kid. They’re the same age.”

“Does she fancy him back?”

NO, definitely not part of his fan club John thought “She’s living with him, so yeah.”

“What?”

“Her flat burned down last night. In that big fire in the City that’s been in the news. That’s how I got stuck staying late at Sherlock’s. Neither one was in a state to be left alone.”

He told himself he needed to be careful… he told Mrs. Hudson one story and now he was telling Mary something completely different. As Sherlock was fond of reminding him, he was a terrible liar. Mary trusted him completely, so she would believe anything he’d tell her... but Mary was no fool either. She could tell when Sherlock, master actor and deceiver, lied to her.  

The last bit of happiness he had felt earlier fled, but he continued with the facade. Had to. His best friend (per orders of the British Government no less) was harboring a fugitive that somebody obviously was none too happy with. Far too risky to tell Mary the truth Oh yeah by the way love, she’s actually an American and a former FBI agent who’s been living here for seven years because her own country disavowed her.

Sounded ridiculous even in his own head.  

“He didn’t mention a girl in the text this morning,” Mary said, frowning.

“It’s Sherlock,” he said. “Look how I found out about her: ‘Hello, John, come by Baker Street whether or not it’s convenient and oh by the way this is Violet, her flat burned up, she lives here now, can you help us out for a bit?’ Oh sure, Sherlock, no problem, please let me drop everything for you and come running.’ This is the same man who drew a moustache on his face and interrupted my marriage proposal to tell me he’s alive, after all.”

Mary smiled then smelled the daisies “Well, she’s either a saint or deaf to put up with him.”

Knowing this bit was at least the truth, he said “She’s got a backbone, definitely. Not afraid to stand up to him. Has no problem telling him off.” Then he had a brainstorm “I do have to confess, I had a bit of fun with Sherlock at his expense. Mrs. Hudson came up unexpectedly before I left and well when the poor lady asked if I’d been there long, I acted like I had just dropped by the flat to say hello and I had caught them uh… deducing each other.”

“John, you didn’t,” Mary covered her mouth, giggled and then laughed out loud, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding on to the flowers behind his neck. “John, you are the worst!”

 “Oh God, Mary, his face, if I could have taken a picture…. He was blushing. Actually turning red in the face. I’d think he would have preferred a press conference wearing the deer stalker… wearing only the deer stalker.”

“He is going to hate you for that.”

“He’ll get over it,” John said. “This is the best thing for him really. For us.”

She bit her lip, looked down “Is she a detective too?”

How to answer that? “Not like him.”

“There’s no one like him.”

“True, but she’s not a cop. She’s more of a… researcher-type from what I gathered. Behind the scenes type. But I really don’t know much about her, I just met her yesterday.”

“Then how can you promise me-“

“Because,” John cupped her face with both hands and kissed her softly again. “This is a huge step for him, think about it.” He tucked a blonde curl behind her ear.

“She’s actually living with him? Like a couple? A proper couple?”

He felt her fingers purposely stroke the back of his neck now. When was the last time she touched him like that? “It was rushed because of the fire-“ and Mycroft he thought “- but yes.” 

“What if he scares her off, what if she ends it? Makes a run for it?”

She’s under house arrest, she’s not going anywhere. “She’s no shrinking violet,” he said then shook his head. “Sorry, terrible pun; should be smacked for that. Her name is Violet, you see.”

“Oh,” Mary said, “That’s an old-fashioned name.”

“Yes, because “John” and “Mary” are so cutting-edge and modern,” he circled both his arms around her, pressed his forehead to hers and whispered “Either way, this is a good thing. For everyone. I’ll still do the blogs and tag along on cases because honestly, the money is too good to turn down and I do enjoy it, can’t lie about that. I like the work and helping people… but I won’t have to…” call a spade a spade John, “Babysit Sherlock anymore. Worry about his social faux pas and danger nights… He’ll start spending more time with her and less with me.”

Suddenly, he felt a strange ache in his chest when those words came out. Why on earth wouldn’t he want that? That’s what happened with people paired up. Orthodox or not, unromantic as it was (definitely unromantic) Sherlock and Violet were now Sherlock-and-Violet.

That was a positive, good thing because he needed to focus on John-and-Mary. “So, while he’s with her, he won’t be ringing our doorbells at ungodly hours or blowing up our mobiles with texts or ordering me about to drop everything and run to his side. Now I do have to go back over tomorrow to help him and Violet get settled plus bounce ideas back and forth about this bombing case we’re working on… but that’s the last case he’s going to force me on. I will pick and choose what cases I go on. I can still blog about everything but I can focus more on the surgery instead so I can be here. Really here, with you. For you. I am so, so sorry I haven’t been… I’ve…” it was hard to continue now because Mary’s eyes were welling up. “Oh my sweet girl, don’t…” he thumbed away a tear that escaped and kissed her so gently. “Mary…”

“It takes two, you know,” she said. “And it’s been easier to just blame Sherlock for everything.”

“Oh good, let’s continue that then, shall we? Dinner’s late? Sherlock’s fault. Laundry’s not done? Sherlock’s fault. I’m out with Greg for a few drinks and don’t come home until midnight? All Sherlock’s fault. Actually, let’s just blame everything on Sherlock… global warming, the crap economy, wars, floods, famine… Sherlock’s fault.”

Mary laughed “No, John, stop, I’m serious… he’s your friend. He’s not had an easy go of it and you’re all he has… had. So it was easy to just blame him for stealing all your attention instead of admitting I was jealous.” She shook her head, ashamed. “He’s been in an unbearable situation for who-knows-how-long now and you’ve been more of a brother than the one he’s got and what do I do? Act like a bitch. A jealous, possessive bitch.”

Not to mention shooting him in the chest… the thought passed through both their minds like a sudden cold breeze, a harbinger of a storm still brewing… but John decided it would be better to enjoy the sunlight now instead of worrying about a storm yet to come.

“Hey now, don’t call my wife names,” he kissed her again. “And you never were… that. When I’m with Sherlock on a case, we need to figure out some sort of a way to communicate so I don’t worry you like, ah, like I did last night. Ever again…” By the way Mary, I was held at gunpoint twice, had a knife to my throat not to mention I escaped a building before it blew sky-high… and oh yes, watched a hellhound maul two different men to death… oh Lord, yes, I do need to start distancing myself from the caseload. Sherlock has a pet FBI agent now… so he really doesn’t need me anymore, does he?

That thought strangely hurt too.

He found her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. He kept his forehead against hers.

“Mary, please believe me, never ever doubt me when I say I love you. I choose you, OK?” 

She nodded, tried to blink back the few tears that had built up but they fell anyway.

He kissed them away, then dipped his head down and kissed her throat, butterfly kisses again, along her chin and up to her lips. He felt her fingers tighten around his, felt her body relax into his. “So you actually have the entire afternoon to yourself?” Her lips on his throat.

“And tonight too,” John murmured, closing his eyes, enjoying, savoring her kisses. “Another good thing coming out of this?” He let go of her hand to pull her close again.

“Mmm?” her hands moved up and down his back, lightly. Teasingly. Barely touching him through the fabric of his shirt with just her fingertips.  

“Maybe we can finally do more than just talk about starting a family?” John asked but then hastily added “If you’re ready to try again, of course, don’t want to push you or anything.”

She pulled away just enough to look at his face. “Are you sure? Really sure about that?” she said with a small hopeful smile. “You have to be ready too.”

“Yes,” he said firmly. He felt a smile tugging on his lips as well. “Yes,” he said with a soft laugh. “Really,” he reached up and gently unclasped the hair clips holding her blonde fringe back out of her face. “Really sure,” he combed his fingers through her hair then gathered her close to him, feeling her arms wrap around his shoulders, returning his kisses with fervor. When she stopped embracing him and took his hand to lead upstairs to the bedroom, he stood stock-still and pulled her back to him.

“No,” he said, “Here.”

She smiled, “Well, then,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “Good thing the drapes are closed.”

The bouquet of daisies fell to the floor next to the dish towel as she reached down to undo his belt while he got to work on her blouse buttons.

**

Sherlock found himself regretting taking this case altogether when Violet had walked out of his room after she finished showering and putting herself together.

She wore one of those camisoles… things (tank-tops? Cami tops? Whatever, names of women’s clothing was so ridiculous…) and the khakis slacks she had in her rucksack. Her hair, damp, hung loose and in its natural waves, long, hanging just below her shoulder blades. She wore a bare minimum of make-up (Thank God) but had put on another pair of those ridiculous fake glasses. Really she was lucky most people contented themselves with existing within the boundaries of their own boring little worlds and never noticed anything beyond its borders.

But what irked him was as she walked out into the lounge she was in the process of putting on over her camisole top was…

“That’s my shirt!” he burst out.

Violet rolled her eyes as she rolled up the cuffs of his good black shirt “Your observational skills really do live up to the legend.”

“Why can’t you wear your own shirts?” he spluttered.

She gave him a saccharine smile “Because I’m your highly infatuated girlfriend who lost everything in a fire … darling.”

“You have clothes,” he insisted.

“You went through my backpack.”

“You went through my home.”

“I said I would explain,” she buttoned up his shirt and then tucked the tails into her jeans. “It’s a good thing you’re skinny,” she said, smoothing the material down. “Otherwise it’d look like I’m wearing a tent,” she finished tucking in his shirt.  

“You cannot wear my clothes,” Sherlock said, feeling his eyelid twitch.

“Women wear their boyfriends’ clothes. It’s a sign of affection.”

“Why? If a man wears a woman’s clothes, it’s considered a sign of deviance.”

“Speaking from personal experience? Is that why you went through my bag?”

Before Sherlock could deliver the scathing response he so dearly wanted to, there was a knock on the door. “Yoohoo, Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock just wanted to go back to the City and examine the crime scene. One explosion causing two city blocks worth of destruction? Something was not adding up. A big, fat, delicious puzzle, tempting him, taunting him really… and he had to sit through lunch with Mrs. Hudson as she cooed over his new… girlfriend.

Girlfriend… what a ridiculous, banal word. She was no girl… a friend however… well, he admitted to himself he couldn’t rule out that possibility… yet.

Thank God she was at least interesting. 

Interesting or not, if he couldn’t go back to the crime scene, he wished to be left in peace and mull over the evidence without so many distractions. Everything was too loud and too bright. He wanted to draw the drapes, lie on the sofa and think if he couldn’t go back to the City.

Be nice, the case can wait, Mrs. Hudson can’t, he heard John’s gentle admonishment in his ear as Violet let Mrs. Hudson in, who was chattering “nine to the dozens” as one of his old nannies used to say (Rose, the nice one, the last one before the Unfortunate Event at his parents’ New Year’s Eve party welcoming in 1984…)

No. He told himself firmly, holding himself absolutely rigid Delete.

A small spasm crossed his face when the memory disobeyed his command. Delete. Delete. Delete. Get out of my head… stop stop stop… he ran a hand over his face, feeling suddenly ill.

Mrs. Hudson did not notice Sherlock’s almost catatonic state as she hustled and bustled in and out of the flat, carrying a picnic hamper, a teapot and cups and finally a box of old clothes, all the while declining Violet’s offers of assistance. Violet however, did see and added the strange behavior to her extending profile of the bizarre man who her life now depended on.

Used to hiding her thoughts and emotions, she said nothing to cause Mrs. Hudson concern. However, when Mrs. Hudson when to lay the table (which ended up her removing the remains whatever it was Sherlock had been experimenting on before setting the plates and cutlery) she quietly went to Sherlock, who hadn’t moved, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

Violet peered up at his face. Then her eyes moved side to side, counting all the overhead lights, the lamps and the open drapes. Moving swiftly, she pulled the drapes shut and switched off the main lights. She stood directly in front of the Consulting Detective. He had steepled his fingers together but instead of putting them under his chin (his normal tic) his pointer and middle fingertips were pressed against his forehead. He looked like a young boy at prayers.

Slowly like she used to at her grandparents’ farm, when she approached one of the new colts, Violet carefully reached to him, making no sudden motions. She lightly touched his elbow.

He jerked himself out of his self-imposed fugue state at her touch, actually taking a step back from her. Violet held her hands up in the universal signal of “I Mean You No Harm” and whispered, using her ‘real’ voice (as Sherlock began to call her American accent) “I need to go back to the office after we finish here. I have a feeling those buildings that burned down were reinsured by GBF but I need to get into the files and I can’t do that here. Plus I need to make sure Carruthers is OK. He might have more insight as to what the hell is going on.”

“Logical,” Sherlock said. “I will accompany you.” He seemed to relax in the dimmed room.

“Good, because I’m not feeling very comfortable flying solo right now” She looked him in the eyes. “You OK?”

“Perfectly fine,” he said in a clipped voice.

Her eyes narrowed “Liar.”

“Pot. Kettle. Black.”

She shrugged “Fair enough.”

Mrs. Hudson popped her head through the doorway “Tea’s ready. Who turned out all the lights? It’s so dark in here.”

“Just trying to be mindful of the energy bill,” Violet said, using her “false” voice, her “Miss Smith voice.” “I’m starved, Sherlock, are you coming?”

One could almost believe there was actual affection in her voice when she said his name. 

Of course Sherlock did not believe that for one second. He declined food, as usual. Anxiously drinking cup after cup of tea, he found himself chaffing at the delay, forced to succumb to this insipid façade as Mrs. Hudson chattered on happily, plying Violet with food, bombarding the woman with questions she neatly and expertly dodged without hurting Mrs. Hudson’s feelings or raising her suspicions.

At least “Miss Smith’s” deft skill at deflecting questions was remarkable to observe. She smiled, demurred, acted like a perfect lady, deferring to Mrs. Hudson as if she was lady-in-waiting at Mrs. Hudson’s royal court.

Which, Sherlock thought, a smile twitching at his lips, she is, as this is Mrs. Hudson’s castle regardless of ownership. I suppose that makes me the beloved prince the Queen of Baker Street wishes to marry off. He found himself liking that idea actually. He found himself swallowing a laugh as he pictured dotty old Mrs. Hudson dressed in all the ancient royal regalia and trappings with a massive crown on her head.

She’d probably be wondering if she left the oven on while everyone bent their knee…

He also noticed Violet beginning to carefully weave together the strands of her new cover story, her new life, carefully intertwining truth and fiction. How did Sherlock and I meet? Oh, a case… he was poking about at my office, wouldn’t leave me be, badgering me with questions, then we ended up meeting for a coffee later, then one thing led to another and here we are, now aren’t we? … Where am I from? Oh, here and there, my father was military, you see... never stayed in one place long enough to be “from” anywhere… I was actually born in Germany… oh yes, I did spend some time in America when I was younger, no, never been to Florida… mostly East Coast, New York, DC... but after uni I settled in London… I’m a city-girl at heart…

Sherlock also perceived that every time she stated a “fact” she thought he should remember she would glance at him, just for a second, but long enough for him to notice. Then she quickly switched her attention back to Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson ate up everything Violet fed her with a silver spoon.

When Violet gently asked if they weren’t stealing time away from the other tenants who may need her attention, Mrs. Hudson looked at her watch and said “Oh, would you look at that, time just got away from me. Yes, I supposed I really should… well, and you two need to get settled properly, plus well, you’ll still need to go out and purchase some trousers that fit, although you’re about as thin as he is,” she scowled at Sherlock’s plate, the chips, beans and sandwich untouched. (He had caved and ate two biscuits when he knew she wasn’t watching. Plus, he knew she brought them up because they were his favorites and essentially was bribing him to eat.) “Maybe now you’ll have better luck than I did getting him to eat proper meals.”

“I’m not sure,” Violet said apologetically. “I’m kind of a crap cook. The Thai take-away by my old place knew my order by heart. But we should go out. Shopping, shouldn’t we? I need to pick up dog food for Stone plus I can’t run around wearing your shirts all the time, can I?”

“No,” Sherlock said shortly. “You can’t.”

Violet shot Sherlock a foul look when Mrs. Hudson’s back was turned while she was clearing the table (“just this once”) for them. Violet mouthed “Be nice” at him when Mrs. Hudson put the dirty dishes in the sink.

He mouthed back “NO.”

“I’ll leave the washing-up to you two then,” Mrs. Hudson said, returning to gather her tea things empty platters and bowls. She dismissed Violet’s offers to help her carry them down to her flat. “No dear, I’m fine, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing lots of you around here then.”

“Um, yes, of course,” Violet said. “That will be lovely.”

“We’ll see if the dry cleaners can work another miracle on your coat, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Yours as well, Violet dear. I brought you up an old one of mine I don’t wear anymore. Warm as ever. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“Mm, you shouldn’t have,” Violet said, following Mrs. Hudson out the door, eyeing the cardboard box of clothes and seeing a puffy pink sleeve hanging over its edge.

“Nonsense. Winter keeps hanging about, you need a good coat. Well, it was so nice to meet you, Violet. Sherlock,” she gave him a stern look. “Remember, it’s not just you anymore, now is it? Having John as a flat mate was one thing, but this is something entirely different, isn’t it?”

“More than what you could possibly know or understand,” Sherlock said.

 “Right,” Violet said hastily, ushering Mrs. Hudson out the door. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson, I mean that. Thank you for the lunch and the clothes, I really appreciate it.”

Violet finally got the gushing Not-A-Housekeeper out the door. When she turned around, a pink, puffy coat hit her in the face. She caught it before it hit the floor. “Oh dear God,” she said, examining it, turning her nose up at the faux fur trim on the cuffs and hood. “I’m going to look like a gay Eskimo.”

Then a jumper hit her in the face. “Stop throwing shit at me!” she snapped, letting the coat fall to the floor. She held the jumper up and proclaimed “Oh hell no.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked as he went to get the black pea-coat he had worn yesterday morning since the Belstaff was once again out of commission. 

Violet turned the sweater around to show him the front “That’s why,” she said so he could see the screen print of fluffy kittens in a basket.

“But that’s adorable,” Sherlock drawled, pulling his black coat on, glad to take his frustration out on someone. He could have been to the crime scene hours ago. All the interesting evidence would be gone now. Now he will actually have to go into New Scotland Yard and talk to Lestrade and beg to see the case file which was probably written up by one of his inept officers. Anderson, most likely. Ugh. “No… no, it really screams ‘you’. You should put it on. Immediately. After you remove my shirt first, which I’ll expect you to press since it’s now creased.”

“My grandmother wouldn’t have even worn this,” Violet chucked the hideous jumper at Sherlock’s head, which he nimbly dodged. “My building was rigged about the same as the surgery in London’s ‘hood was the other day… the building imploded so how did two city-blocks burn to the ground? That couldn’t have been caused by the blast otherwise you and I would have been incinerated. If I’m right about GBF being the reinsurers, that would explain the why. But the how… and speaking of the how…” she sighed. “OK, this has been driving me nuts since you left our office yesterday afternoon… “

Sherlock stopped tying his scarf around his neck and waited, eyebrow arched.

“How in the hell did you figure out we were drug money laundering front? I know it wasn’t just a wild guess, you don’t make wild guesses.”

Sherlock smiled “Get your shoes and looovely coat on and I’ll tell you on our way to your office.”

**

While John made up for lost time with his wife and while Sherlock proceeded to brag about his brilliance to Violet, an old man enjoyed a cup of coffee in Regent’s Park. He enjoyed wandering though the park, bird-watching. Sometimes he went on the guided bird walks; sometimes he ambled about on his own, sometimes he just found a place to sit, to sip at coffee, watching the redwings and swallows.

Today was a sit-down day. Lately he had been feeling tired, but he was not a young man. Not ancient by any stretch of the imagination and sixty-five was not as old as it used to be… but he would never be mistaken for a younger man ever again.

Carefully groomed silver hair, a bit longer than how most men wore their hair, but he liked it. Trendy black spectacles that managed not to look ridiculous on him, a good coat, a thick cashmere muffler, leather gloves and shoes with a spit-shine polish. No one paid him mind, he was just a well-dressed old man on his own, sipping coffee, watching the waterfowl on the lake. He could be someone’s well-to-do grandpa.

His mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. Didn’t have the ringer on, of course. Didn’t want to scare the birds. He fished it out of his pocket, just a simple mobile phone. None of that ridiculous Smartphone technology for him, at least, not on a prepay mobile. “

Yes?” He had a faint Irish accent.

A male, American voice said into his ear “She survived the fall.”

He chuckled “Of course she did. Is she with him?”

“Yes.” A pause “What’s the play?”

He thought for a moment “Baker Street has the same level of surveillance as Buckingham Palace. The Ice Man will never let Baby Brother out of sight for one second, not after the amazing disappearing act he pulled off all those years ago…” he took a sip of coffee. No use letting good coffee go cold. His employee would wait for his answer. “For now, let her amuse the Virgin. She will serve as a welcome distraction as we move forward with our real work.”

His employee sounded doubtful “She’s a loose end.”

“One we can tie up when the time is right,” he said firmly. “Right now, let’s not give MI-6 any reason to get involved. Preferable to deal with the Met police and NSY, don’t you agree?”

‘Yeah, OK,” the American said after another pause.

“You disagree though.”

“I know her,” he insisted. “You’ve only seen the ‘English Rose’ routine. I know her, knew her from before… she’s a survivor, thinks on her feet. She’s smart and she’s manipulative. And fucking ruthless if she feels threatened; she’s killed people. She could con the Holmes brothers into helping her get her US citizenship back by turning their attention to us instead of the red herring we created and-“

“Not the Ice Man,” the old man gently corrected the American “He would not fall for it. The Virgin, yes. Oh, it’s been done before, by a certain Miss Irene Adler. Shame about her pretty head being chopped off. I heard she was rather good at her… profession.”

“I dunno,” the American said.

“He is a man, not a god, no matter how brilliant he is. He has a man’s needs and desires.”

“From what I heard, women aren’t his area, if you catch my drift.”

The old man rolled his eyes. Americans. He enjoyed their straightforwardness but hated how they tended to sexualize everything. “He desires attention. He doesn’t give a toss if it’s from a man or a woman. It’s not about consummation, it’s about adoration and she can give him that, therefore keeping him distracted from us and our work.” Sensing the American’s lingering doubts he said “I promise you, when the time is right, you may tie up that loose end personally. For now, let her run circles around him. Let her play her mind games, let her lead him on, let her believe she’s safe, let her believe she has a chance of leaving this country alive.”

“What about the Ice Man?”

“Another loose end to tie up later,” the old man said regretfully. The “minor government official” would have to wait until the very end. “One I will handle myself. We have a score to settle, the Ice Man and I. I want his world in ashes when I burn his heart.”

As my world is now in ashes…

 “OK,” the American said. “Proceed to Phase Two then?”  

“Proceed with extreme caution,” the old man said. “Only if you are absolutely sure the bombings in the City cannot be linked to our endgame. Remember, even though I’d rather deal with NSY than MI-6, NSY means DI Lestrade is involved which means-”

“It’s covered,” the American said. “What about the good doctor?”

“Another loose end I am now handling,” he said “No longer your concern beyond surveillance.”

“He’ll be distancing himself from Holmes because of Hunter.”

The old man took another sip of coffee before answering “Perfect.”

I will burn the heart out of you…

 **

“… and that is how I deduced you were altering financial records in order to proceed with the money laundering,” Sherlock finished smugly as he and Violet stood outside Baker Street, waiting for the cab Sherlock called for.

“You figured all that out from instant message conversations you read over my employee’s shoulders?” Violet zipped up the hideous pink coat. But, as much as she hated to admit it, it was warm. “And from when you knocked the spreadsheets out of poor Olivia’s hands?” She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag she insisted on dragging everywhere.

“Naturally,” Sherlock said. “Women can be so irksome in their pettiness. When I read an instant message about “Oval Ollie seeking the Queen’s help because she f’ed up again”, I knew she was the obvious choice for the patsy. It would not have taken a genius to deduce they were ridiculing the rather unfortunate dumpy female with the panicked expression walking towards us, or you rather. Poor thing probably never had a clue what you did to her.”

“She always thought when numbers didn’t balanced it was because of either operator error or computer error,” Violet said. “To her, the Excel spreadsheet always was always balanced but once in the computer, the numbers were always off. And since it was an overnight cycle, the errors would never be caught until the morning.”

“You would “fix” it, by electronically moving the overage (in other words, the dirty money) out from GBF’s main savings to back to a suspense account at a completely different bank, created for situations like a computer error when funds have to be pulled then re-distributed correctly. Prior to meeting our run-in with Oval Ollie-“

“Stop calling her that,” Violet said sharply, more “Miss Smith” than “Agent Hunter.” “I wrote up two of my employees for bullying her so don’t think I’m going to put up with your bullshit either.”

“You use her as a tool in money laundering, but heaven forbid someone else calls her names?” Sherlock said, more intrigued than irritated. Really, the woman was a walking contradiction.

How fun.

“As I was saying, before because our run-in with Saint Olivia, Office Martyr, I perceived another one of your employees writing a paper cheque. Odd, since more and more businesses are utilizing electronic payments. The cheque was made out to a “Staff Solutions” which sounds like some sort of temporary staffing agency but I also noticed the address on the envelope was to a PO Box, not a physical address. Interesting. While you were doing your best to freeze me out, I did a quick Google search (so I was not pretending to text as you and John assumed) and surprise, surprise, nothing came up for that business under that PO Box address.

“After the dirty money is moved from your firm’s main bank account to the so-called suspense account at a different bank, you have an actual paper cheque issued from the offshore account and mailed to a PO Box. A mule is responsible for collecting the cheques either cashing them outright or depositing the funds into another untraceable offshore account, probably a combination of both, if the mule has a gram of intelligence. The dirty money is now clean as a whistle, the funds are ready to be distributed to whatever criminal organization it belongs to, either via cash drop offs or wire transfers to their offshore accounts. The books balance beautifully on your end and neither bank knows what is going on with the other. Ingenious, really,” Sherlock sounded sincerely impressed. 

“If Olivia had ever been curious enough to hit the control key and the accent key when trying to figure out what was going on with the Excel spreadsheets, she would have seen that the formulas had been changed so the numbers would get deliberately jacked up. I had to be careful not to alter the spreadsheets too often or send too big of deposits over, otherwise red flags would have gone up at both banks… but when we needed to move the dirty money, I would stay late to change the Excel formulas and the next morning, she would come to me fix it in the system because I was the only one who had the administrative authority to make a major correction like that. Her incompetence was our cover story. Unless someone really knew what they were looking for…”

“They’d have no idea; Saint Olivia is obviously no criminal mastermind,” Sherlock said as the cab pulled up. “On the surface, it looks like a legitimate oversight made by a useless employee.  I’ll have to tell you how I made the connection to the money laundering to the illegal drug trade later and how I deducted the drug funds were placed into your firm in the first place. I dislike discussing on-going cases in cabs… you never know how closely the cab driver is listening,” he shuddered, remembering the murderous cab driver from the first case he had ever worked with John… remembered deducing that John killed the cab driver, shot him from a distance…

Remembered Moriarty as the cab driver…

This is the tale of Sir Boast-a-lot…

Need to work on improving the infrastructures of my memory palace… do not understand why the walls are crumbling…

To push that memory out of the way, he added snobbishly “Plus you will start using your unbearable English accent the minute we get inside the cab and I’d rather not listen to it.” 

“My accent is impeccable,” Violet said in her “Miss Smith” voice. “You don’t like it because you know I’m lying when I’m using it and dishonesty in other people annoys you.”

Sherlock opened the cab door, looked her up from her stupid false eyeglasses down to the toes of her black ballet flats then back up again, only now actually studying her eyes instead of being distracted by her silly glasses. “Fair enough,” he said, actually stepping aside like a gentlemen to allow her to get into the cab.

Violet, to be amiable, did not speak until she heard Sherlock give the address of where he wanted to go. Her eyes widened in alarm but even then, she remained silent until they reached Scotland Yard.

After Sherlock paid the fare and they got out of the cab, she asked in her “true” voice: “Should I be nervous?” as she glanced up at the sign.

“Why would I hand you over to Scotland Yard when I could have given you up to my dearest brother and MI-6?” Sherlock shook his head at her foolishness.

“Maybe I should wait outside…”  

“If we are to proceed with this ludicrous charade, we need to start establishing and explaining your presence in my life. Lestrade is a… a friend. It would be logical to introduce you to him, don’t you think?” Sherlock walked away from her, towards the entrance.

“Wait,” she said but he ignored her. She trotted after him, grabbing him by the crook of his elbow when she caught up “Wait,” she said again, turning him to her. “OK, fine. You’re right-“

“I’m always right.” He shook loose of her grip. Honestly, was she always going to be this touchy-feely? Annoying.

Violet clenched her fists together, counted to ten and then said slowly “No one in there is going to believe that someone as unlikeable as you is actually in a traditional functioning relationship so we need to figure out how to make… this… look real.”

Wounded, he said “I’m likeable.”

“No. You’re not,” Violet said “But that doesn’t make you unlovable.”

“I’ve been in relationships before,” he said, still using his whipped-puppy voice.

“Irene Adler doesn’t count,” Violet informed him. “And neither does that… whatever that was with that Janine-chick.”

“Ahh… Janine. THAT was her name.”

“Wow,” Violet said to herself. Then she said directly to him “And thank you for proving that your relationship was all for show.”  

“You did do your research,” Sherlock rocked back on his heels, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I can play the star-struck, infatuated fan-girl angle since this is a new relationship and everything is bright and shiny, but if we go in there,” she pointed at the Scotland Yard building “and you treat me the same way as you treat everyone else, this will blow up in our faces, Mycroft will make your life a living hell and I’m going to be on the first flight to Guantanamo Bay,” Her voice suddenly cracked.   

 Arrested, Sherlock studied her face again: her pupils were pinpricks again, her face was pale again. He looked down, saw her left hand trembling ever so slightly again. “You are truly afraid of that possibility, aren’t you?” he said softly.

She shook her head, not knowing how to make him understand how she felt, unreasonably afraid he would just belittle her abject terror “I did nothing wrong, I was doing my job and my country called me a traitor,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t you be afraid if the one thing you took for granted turned its back on you? How would you feel if you couldn’t be you anymore?”

“I do know how that feels,” he said, still in a soft voice, almost gentle, almost sympathetic.

“Not like this,” she shook her head after giving Scotland Yard another nervous glance.

“As of this moment, you are my top priority,” Sherlock told her. “’I assure you  that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for months… If you find yourself in doubt or danger—‘”*

“What are you seeing that I’m not?” Violet interrupted.

“’It would cease to be a danger if we could define it,’"* he said with a sigh. “However, if I am not nearby, at any time, day or night, a text will bring me to your side, do you understand?”

Violet closed her eyes, took a shuddering breath and nodded. Then opened her eyes, tilted her head to one side and looked up at Sherlock. “John,” she said.

“What?”

“Treat me,” she said slowly “the same way you treat John.” She nodded “We can pull this off if you can do that.”

“That would involve you coming with me on cases,” Sherlock said. “You would have to interact with the morons here,” he jerked his head towards Scotland Yard.

She crossed her arms, bit her lip, debating. Finally she said “But you’ll be with me then and if you’re not, you’ll find me if I need you, no matter what, right?” She still looked terrified, but there was a steeliness in her voice that hadn’t been there a few moments ago.

Maybe not all of the “Miss Smith” persona was an act after all.

“Could be dangerous,” he said casually.

A small smile appeared on her lips then she shrugged slightly “Could be fun.” She pulled the hair-tie off her wrist and quickly bound her chestnut curls into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. “Well…” she said, in her false “Miss Smith” voice. “Shall we then, Mr. Holmes?”

“We shall, Miss Smith,” he said, amused.

“That reminds me, we both need to stop and pick up new mobiles,” she said as they walked down the pavement towards the entrance.

“We’ll purchase those up after we finish here and before going back to your office, which I assume even though it had been ransacked by our friends from last night, there is probably valuable information and equipment they missed?”

“Naturally,” “Miss Smith” said smugly as she paused to let Sherlock open the door.

As they made their way towards Lestrade’s office, Sherlock observed how her entire body language changed when she switched between her true self and her alter-ego. Violet Hunter moved briskly, almost military, independent, fierce and focused. Violet Smith, however, walked with a languid grace, elegant and regal. Despite the ridiculous pink coat, she moved as she was clothed head-to-toe in Chanel, followed by an entourage.

Aware how people stared at him (they always stared at him) as they walked through Scotland Yard’s hallways, he looked straight ahead as he lead Violet to Lestrade’s office. This time, he knew they were staring at the chestnut haired woman with spectacles and puffy pink coat accompanying him. Probably wondering who she was and where John was.

Violet had been right; treating her the same as John was the best course of action. Especially since everyone assumed John and he were … well, John was married now. To a woman. So that whole rumor should have died down by now… shouldn’t it?

Without knocking, Sherlock barged into Lestrade’s office.

Lestrade, on a call, jumped as his door swung open, “Have to go. Will ring back later,” he hung up his telephone, stood up from his desk and bawled at Sherlock “Where in the hell have you been?” Looking behind Sherlock, seeing Violet, he added “And who in the hell is that? Is that the woman who jumped off the Wobbly Bridge with you? Where’s John?”

“I’ve been home all morning and early afternoon; this is my… err…” Girlfriend was still not a word that rolled off of Sherlock’s tongue easily though. “My… Miss Smith, Violet Smith. John has taken a well-deserved day off and how did you know about jumping off the bridge?”

“It’s all over Twitter, some tourists took snaps of you and her last night.”

“It’s all over Twitter?” Violet repeated, giving Sherlock a clenched smile. “My photograph is all over Twitter?” Her eyes flashed furiously at him – her true thoughts couldn’t be more obvious: I’m not supposed to exist and my picture is on Twitter?

Lestrade, too consumed with his anger towards Sherlock, fortunately did not observe Violet’s apparent outrage. “Yeah, yeah HashtagIbelieveinSherlockHolmes, hashtagdeerstalker, hashtagSherlocklives, hashtagShelockisbarkingmad, hashtagWTFSH… the usual.”

“Oh good, we’re trending,” Violet said through her teeth. Then under her breath she added “And I was pushed.”

“Can we not get into that right at this moment?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Actually, yes, we are going to get into that right now,” Lestrade put his hands on his hips, looking like a furious father chastising a teenage son late for curfew. “Miss Smith, was it? If you don’t mind, could be so kind as to wait outside?”

“She’s my assistant,” Sherlock said.

“Thought John was your assistant?”

“He’s my blogger.”

“Expanding your empire, are you?”

“You could say that,” Sherlock said. “How did two city-blocks burn when only one building, a residential flat was rigged with explosions in the same manner as the surgery two days ago and the other buildings that I pointed out to you when I expanded the search parameters to include other towns and cities?”

“I’m going regret asking but how did you know-“

“Um, because it was my block of flats,” Violet said. “That exploded. We barely got out in time.”

Lestrade stopped to look at her, really look at her. Then at Sherlock then back at Violet. “Why was he at your flat?” he finally said, as if he reached the logical conclusion but not accepting it.

Violet’s heart thudding in her chest, thinking of her employees, the full-time staff, the temps, Carruthers (who was probably out of his mind with worry… assuming he was even alive…) Please please please Sherlock she silently begged him. Lie. Don’t let Scotland Yard connect the dots… I’ve got too much blood on my hands already… her mouth went dry as she wondered if he could resist the temptation to flaunt his brilliance. Sherlock please, these are people with families… kids, for God’s sake… lie, just lie… pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…

Sherlock looked ill-at-ease. “We met on a case,” he said uncomfortably. “We’ve been… spending time together.” Saying those words aloud seemed to cause him physical pain.

Lestrade gawped at the pair of them. “You… and him… together…? You’re seeing each other?”

That’s my cue, Violet thought. “Why does everyone think that’s strange?” she asked innocently, giving Lestrade a puzzled look before turning to give Sherlock a bright smile at the correct wattage: not so dazzling that she seemed like a vapid groupie, but just luminous enough to show she was absolutely smitten.

Oh you are good, Sherlock thought, not being able to help himself, smiling back at her.

“Hell is freezing over, right now,” Lestrade said, bewildered. 

“Uh, maybe I should wait outside? Give you two a minute? I can fetch coffee if someone points me in the right direction?”

Lestrade declined her offer but gave her simple directions to the nearest break room. Sherlock asked for his usual coffee with two sugars and Violet, breathing a sigh of relief to herself, slipped from Lestrade’s office, hoping to get the hell out of Scotland Yard as soon as possible. 

Once she left, Lestrade nodded, “She’s cute,” he said, still taken aback.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Cute, like girlfriend, was another saccharine-sweet word he was not enamored with at all. “Cute is used to describe infants and kittens. She’s practical and sensible, above-average intelligent and reasonably talented. She’s interesting.”

Lestrade grinned, deciding it was high time to take the mickey out the Great Consulting Detective. “Doesn’t hurt she’s got a figure that doesn’t quit either, legs up to neck, she has. A ginger though? Funny, I always thought you fancied brunettes. Of course, she’d have to be soulless to put up with you, wouldn’t she? ”

“First John and Mrs. Hudson, now you,” Sherlock grumbled, disliking everyone taunting him.  

“Oho,” Lestrade’s eyes twinkled. “So, she’s meeting the family then? When are you going to introduce her to Molly?”

Something in Sherlock’s chest fell.

Oh…

Molly.

He had forgotten about her in all of this.

How was she going to take this? She didn’t fancy him anymore. At least, he hadn’t observed any recent action from her indicating she may still have lingering romantic feeling for him… But then again, he hadn’t talked to her properly in over two months. The work, of course, came first.

Still… Violet could alter his dynamic with Molly and he didn’t want that. He worried Molly would feel she had to minimize her presence in his life which was not what he wanted.

He needed Molly.

She counted…

But right now, Violet needed him…

Not good… Messy and disorganized.

He hated feeling like this.

His face betrayed none of these freefalling thoughts however. Out loud he said “All in due time, Detective-Inspector. I don’t want Violet overwhelmed with introductions especially since she just endured John’s japes and Mrs. Hudson’s fawning affections.”

“Good point, don’t want to scare the poor woman off yet,” Lestrade conceded. “And I won’t tell Molly, not my place. That’s your news. Uh, but where is the lady staying since her flat is now rubble? Is she staying with friends or family…?”

“No,” Sherlock said curtly.

Lestrade’s grin widened. “You dog,” he said.

“Can we please discuss the case now,” Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to decide what he was going to steal from Lestrade for being aggravating.

“In a moment, just got to say one thing,” Lestrade said, sobering up. “Sherlock, you can’t… when I saw those Twitter pictures and the CCTV feed of you and her on the bridge and then jumping into the Thames…” he paused, rubbing his forehead. Since he wasn’t angry anymore, what needed to be said was now difficult. “Too much like St. Bart’s, mate,” he finally said.

Sherlock lowered his head. “Wasn’t my intention to worry anyone,” he muttered.

“That’s just it though,” Lestrade said. “You never intend to worry anyone, but then you do something completely mad and, well, scare the shit out of everyone.”

“Understood,” Sherlock said, unwilling to endure another lecture. Brusquely, he added “Sorry.”

“OK,” Lestrade said while deciding that today was definitely a Gold Star Day: Sherlock Holmes had a live-in girlfriend AND had issued an apology without being prompted by John Watson. I better buy a lottery ticket after work, he decided. “Let’s go over the case then,” he said, deciding to put the man out of his misery.    

While Sherlock and Lestrade had their overdue chat, Violet took her sweet time getting coffee, slightly irritated with herself for acting like a waitress but she really hadn’t see any other logical way of removing herself from the office. Her earlier performance for Mrs. Hudson had exhausted her, she wasn’t sure if she had it in her to perform an encore for Lestrade, who was a seasoned Scotland Yard detective, not a sweet, fluttery old woman.  

Plus, she had a feeling Lestrade would speak more freely about the case with Sherlock if she wasn’t there. She hadn’t earned her “street cred” yet. She had to actually go along with Sherlock on a case and actually be useful before the officers at Scotland Yard, especially Lestrade, would give her the same regard they gave John Watson.

So she slowly drank a cup of strong, bitter coffee on her own before getting around to fixing the promised cup for Sherlock. She mulled over the events of the past twenty-four hours, scarcely believing how turned-upside-down everything was now. Finishing her coffee, she switched the strap of the messenger bag from her left shoulder to her right. The damn thing wasn’t as light as it looked, but until she found somewhere to put it where she knew Sherlock wouldn’t dig through it like he did her rucksack, it was staying with her at all times.

On the bright side, you get to be an investigator again, in a limited capacity for a little while, she thought as she poured coffee for Sherlock and a second cup for herself. Then she wondered if it was wrong she felt a thrill of excitement at the idea.

It had been a long time since she thought about her old life, back in the States, when she wore black suits, sensible shoes and an FBI windbreaker. Carried a badge. Legally carried a gun.

Had friends. Had family.

She shook her head. Now was not the time.

Speaking of time, she looked up at the clock. She figured he had given the Detective-Inspector and the Consulting Detective enough time to talk.  She picked up the flimsy paper cups and turned to walk out of the break room.

And nearly ran right into Sally Donovan.

“Oh! Sorry,” Violet winced as hot coffee sloshed over the cups’ rim and onto her hands. “Pardon me,” she said making to move past Sally.

Sally didn’t move “Saw you come in with Dead Man Walking.”

WOW. Bitch! Violet Hunter thought.

“I’m sorry, I don’t… do you mean Sherlock?” Violet Smith asked.

Sally tilted her head, sizing her up. Violet instantly rearranged her face into an expression of polite puzzlement. “Can I help you?” she finally said. “Do you need to ask me questions about last night’s fire? I lived in one of destroyed flats in the City, you see.”

“Oh…” Sally said, her pretty brown eyes widened. “Is that why you’re here with the Freak?”

Violet knew there was no love lost between Sherlock and Sally but the level of Sally’s vitriol was unexpected. “I don’t understand why you’re attacking me. I’m just getting coffee while Sherlock speaks to DI Lestrade.”

“Normally his lap dog John Watson tags along with Holmes, why are you here instead? Are you his new pet now that Watson is married off?”

“He asked me to come with him. I didn’t ask where Dr. Watson was because I figured his whereabouts might be none of my business,” Violet said gently. “Now if you will please excuse me,” she tried to nudge past Sally again but Sally again refused to budge. The woman actually took a few steps into the break room, causing Violet to hastily back up, slopping more coffee over her hands.

Violet Hunter fought down the urge to throw both cups into Sally’s face. Sometimes she wished she had made “Violet Smith” a little less ladylike.

“You are making me very uncomfortable,” Violet said firmly, like a fussy schoolteacher.

“Sherlock Holmes makes people uncomfortable, not me,” Sally said, taking another step closer.

This time Violet held her ground. “Sherlock Holmes is intelligent and introverted and does not suffer fools gladly. Once you accept that about him, he’s not uncomfortable to be around at all.”

While she had been verbally sparing with Sally, Violet rapidly assessed the police woman. Not as quickly or detail-orientated as Sherlock, but then no else could, except for the late Jim Moriarty, of course.

Defensive body language, chin down, covering neck, arms crossed protecting abdominal, posture absolutely tense. She feels absolutely threatened, why? Not by me, I’m shorter than she is and she can’t tell if I’m in shape or not because of this stupid coat. She’s trying to intimidate me in order to find out why Sherlock is here. She’s not an idiot, she suspects something’s off, with me here instead of John, which is true… but something’s not right with her either… she’s not just pissed off because Sherlock’s here… she’s scared shitless…

Time to play…

“… some sort of fan, is that it?” Sally still was trying to get a rise out of her. “Hang about Baker Street in a deerstalker and Belstaff knock-off?”

“I think I’m a bit old for costumes,” Violet demurred. Jesus wonder what she would do if she knew I was wearing one of his actual shirts… probably have an aneurysm.”But I’ve seen those silly girls at Baker Street. Wonder what their parents must think…. Sixteen year old girls mooning over a middle-aged man. My parents would have been appalled.”

“You’ve… been to Baker Street?”

“Well, of course. Actually I’m living there now. Since my flat burned down and all.”

Violet kept her face blandly sweet while watching Sally’s crumple in utter confusion. “What?”

“It happened faster than either one of us anticipated, but I don’t have any family in London and my friends’ flats don’t permit dogs, so it was the logical solution. And a happy one, I must admit,” Violet carefully produced the smile a woman makes when her dearest wish came true.  

“You’re living with…?” Sally acted as if Violet admitted she enjoyed eating puppies for lunch.  

“Yes, I believe I was quite clear about that,” Violet interjected just a touch of impatience now. “Now, if you will excuse me, Miss…? I apologize, didn’t catch you name?”

“Because I didn’t give it,” Sally said, trying to imagine a world where someone other than John Watson was willingly living with Sherlock Holmes. Violet lifted her brows, staring at the woman over the rims of her glasses, waiting for a response. Finally Sally caved “Donovan.”

Violet narrowed her eyebrows, pretending to think “Donovan…” she said, as if she was trying to recall where she had heard the surname before. A rush of pure evil satisfaction coursed through her body as she watched Sally’s face harden, waiting for her to come to the logical conclusion, to say out loud Oh, weren’t you the one who royally botched the case of the missing American Ambassador’s children? Falsely accusing the Great Detective while the real villain got away?

“Hm, I don’t think Sherlock’s ever mentioned you,” she said lightly. “You seem familiar though.”

“Can’t imagine the Freak not mentioning me,” Sally said disbelievingly.

Violet shook her head, then stopped, then said “Oh... you must be his ex… oh my God,” Violet hung her head as if mortified. “This is so awkward.”

“WHAT?” Sally screeched. 

“Of course that’s why you reacted as you did a moment ago, it makes perfect sense now.”

“I didn't… I don’t…” Sally spluttered. “I never…”

“Look, I’m sorry if he was cruel to you, he sometimes forgets how brutal his brand of honesty can be,” Violet said earnestly. “I’m sure he thought he was just being kind when he told you he wasn't interes-“

“I did not, do not fancy that psychopath,” Sally seethed.

Violet gave her a discomfited smile “Well, if the World’s Most Observant Man thinks you have still have feelings him… you probably do.”

The World’s Most Observant Man meanwhile, had been hovering around the corner nearly the entire time. After being briefed by Lestrade, he decided the incompetent officers in charge of the scene (the lead forensics officer being Anderson, God save us all…) failed to observe crucial data that would have produced a clear conclusion as to what precisely happened last night. So, after nicking a fountain pen he knew Lestrade was fond of, he went off in search for Violet. It didn’t take long to walk to the break room he knew Lestrade gave her directions to but he paused after hearing Sally’s snide comment about John being his lap dog.

Hate. Her. He thought viciously as he took a step to give Sally a well-overdue dressing down. Then he heard Violet’s Oh-So-Prim-and-Proper retort and decided to wait and see how “Miss Smith” handled this unpleasant encounter.

She, in his estimation, acquitted herself superbly.  

When she accused Sally of unrequited romantic feelings for him and hearing Sally’s shrill denials, Sherlock had to stop himself from turning the corner and kissing Violet on the mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had even desired kissing a woman. (Oh, once he desired Irene Adler, but at that time, it wasn’t exactly kissing he had in mind.)

However, Violet’s jibe was simply beautiful.

Why didn't I ever think to accuse Donovan of fancying me? Sherlock thought mischievously as he started to walk around the corner, deciding it was time he joined in on the fun.  Oh I will have to remember that for future investigations when she is being particularly ratty.

“There you are,” Sherlock said, standing in the doorway, blocking both women into the break room “Been looking for you,” he added as he swept into the room majestically. He walked past Sally as if she didn't exist to stand beside Violet and positioned himself so he knew Sally could see both his and Violet’s facial expressions.  

“I’m sorry,” Violet said with another radiant smile. “I got to chatting with…. Miss Donovan here.  Coffee’s gone cold, I’m afraid.”

“Coffee here is dreadful anyway; we’ll get a proper cup somewhere else,” he said, purposely dropping his voice an octave lower, a level which he had been informed women and gay men found attractive (why that was he wasn't quite sure, the research he had gathered was inconclusive. And mind-numbingly boring.)

Violet was tempted to hand the coffee cups to Sally, but that kind of rudeness would be something Violet Hunter would do, not Violet Smith, so she said “Just a minute,” as she turned to dump the coffees down the sink and toss the paper cups into the bin. “Um,” Violet said with an ill at ease smile as she stood next to Sherlock. “It was nice meeting you Miss Donovan.”

“Sergeant Donovan,” she said faintly, staring at Sherlock and Violet as if they were aliens just beamed down from the mother ship.

“Yes,” Sherlock possessively put his right hand on Violet’s right shoulder. His hand felt huge on her narrow shoulder, even with her wearing that dreadful puffy coat but he wanted Sally to see him willingly touching Violet. He also silently congratulated Violet for seamlessly playing along “Of course,” he said coolly as he ushered Violet out of the room “Nice seeing you again, Susie,”

“You know what I’m called!” she snapped.

“I do,” he said, “but there is a lady present so I shan't repeat it in her presence.”

Sherlock could feel Violet vibrate with suppressed laughter. “You can’t giggle here, this is Scotland Yard,” he whispered even as he was finding it difficult to control himself

“Then get me out of here,” she could barely get the words out as they hurried down the hallway towards the lifts.

 

+++

* Direct quotes from The Adventure of  The Copper Beeches, page 329:

Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan. The Complete Sherlock Holmes. New York : Doubleday, 1930. Print. <- found this gem on the clearance rack for $2.00 at a used bookstore. :^)

The line ""However, if I am not nearby, at any time, day or night, a text will bring me to your side, do you understand?”", is a paraphrase - in the original, Sherlock says "telegram" instead of "text", which, of course has gone the way of the eight-track, the dinosaur and myspace.

Still working on the sequel, so again, if anyone is interested in Beta-reading/Brit-picking, please let me know. 

If I haven't mentioned it lately, thanks for reading and thanks for the kudos!

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: Little Stormcrow

“Dreadful woman,” Sherlock said after they had escaped the Yard.

Both of them erupted into giggles like school children when they were a safe distance away. “Dangerous woman,” Violet Hunter said, sobering up. “She’s got good instincts and she’s not stupid.” Sherlock made a snorting noise indicting his completely disagreement with her assessment of Sally’s intellect. Violet ignored him. ”But her emotions get the better of her, especially her temper. She’s still bitter about the whole Fall and Rise, of course. She’s damn lucky to still have a job.” She bit her lip.

Sherlock put that observation away in the mind-palace room under construction for Violet Hunter: Bites lip when deep in thought, but not with any provocative come-hither undertones. Really gnaws on it. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s draw her own blood in the past… Possible tell or just nervous tic while problem-solving? Or one-in-the-same? Require more data…

He also observed she hadn’t shrugged off his hand off her shoulder yet. Complete turnabout from yesterday when she threatened to gouge his eyes out when he grabbed her hand to examine it for telltale scars and other possible irregularities. Not to mention how she froze when, acting as The Drunk Boyfriend, he snuggled into her.  Either is beginning to trust me or is beginning to think she can manipulate me. Or one-in-the-same? Require more data…

Violet, meanwhile, was still ruminating about Sally Donovan. Her own instincts, sharper than Sally’s, hummed like a seismograph before an earthquake… nothing major was happening yet… on the surface. “She was frightened,” she finally said. “She’s frightened and angry. Her head’s not in the game,” Violet shook her own head ruefully. “She’s going to get someone killed…” she gave Sherlock a sidelong glance “For real this time.”

“So you needled her,” Sherlock said, “Deliberately provoked her into a response. Do you think that was wise?”

“I wanted to gauge her response.”

“And?”

“Over-reaction.”

“Obviously.”

“I also needed to get the upper hand in that confrontation.”

“Also obvious. While you are fairly strong and fit for a woman your age-“

“I’m the same age as you. Don’t make me sound like I’m ancient.”

He ignored her. “- you are slender and you are only slightly above-average height for a woman. Most of the adversaries you have faced in the past and face currently you would not be able to beat in a fair fight. That is not being chauvinistic; that is being descriptive. Because of your very real physical limitations and certain situations you are placed in, you resort to mind games in order to gain the advantage. Donovan caught you off-guard. As it pains me to admit, she is not as mindless as her colleagues but as you so accurately deduced-“

“Profiled.”

He ignored that as well “She relies on emotions, her “gut instincts” to make decisions.”

“So she hasn’t learned from her mistakes,” Violet started chewing on her lip again.

“Indeed. She didn’t have a scrap of concrete conclusive evidence against me and yet she persuaded to have me arrested for those American children’s abductions. Her role in my Fall still rankles her, personally and professionally. Obviously Scotland Yard used her and Anderson as the scapegoats when I returned from my Great Hiatus. She only still has her job because she was barely acquitted at their disciplinary hearings and because I declined to press charges.”

“So here she goes again,” Violet rolled her eyes. “She feels a twinge in her big toe when she sees me walking in with you and instead of thinking ‘Hey, the last time I leapt to conclusions without proof, a bunch of people died and one of those dead people came back to life”… she thought it would be a great idea to confront me without knowing a damn thing about me.”

“Precisely. She thought she could intimidate you into spilling why I was here because to her, I will always be the freakish psychopath with an ulterior motive.  But not only did you completely cut her down, you saved yourself from further scrutiny from her for the time being, acting your role perfectly as the… how did you put it? “A star-struck, infatuated fan-girl”? She thinks you’re too besotted to see who I really am right now and beneath her notice but eventually-

“She assumes I’m going to run screaming from you. Especially after living with you,” Which I haven’t quite ruled out yet Violet thought.

“I’m sure Anderson has already started an office pool,” Sherlock said.

“Then she’ll be back with the tea-and-sympathy bullshit. Hopefully get me sob on her shoulder about what an ass you are and tell her what she needs to know to bring you down and rebuild her shattered career.” Violet shook her head again. “She’s a total liability.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said, stopping to hail a cab. “That is why I reiterated to Lestrade the importance of keeping those two imbeciles as far away from us as possible.”

Us. That word made Violet feel very strange. “Speaking of us and liabilities,” Violet said, slipping from out underneath Sherlock’s hand so she could face him. “Twitter? We’re on Twitter?”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said, flipping the collar of his coat up. Really, this pea-coat was just utter crap compared to his coat. If the cleaners could save it again, he would have to acknowledge there might actually be a God. “I asked Lestrade to show me the pictures on his mobile since neither one of us have Smartphones at the moment. The resolution is terrible. You can’t even tell you’re female in most of them, actually.”

“Thanks?” Violet said, torn between outrage and relief.  She gripped the straps of her bag, seeing the cab pull up. “The mobile store, then the office, yes?” she said, slipping easily back into her “Violet Smith” voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, opening the cab door for her, anxious and excited to find out what Violet and “Carruthers” had been hiding at the office. And also to find out why Violet had been patient enough to wait this long to return to her little kingdom.

Hope domestic bliss is worth what you’re missing out on, John, Sherlock thought as the cab pulled away from the curb.

He looked at the woman next to him. Felt suddenly, distinctly unhappy.

It should be John in the seat next to him.

Not her. 

**

At approximately five o’clock that evening, Mycroft Holmes walked into the flat he occupied when pressing matters preventing him from leaving London. Lately he had been staying in London more often than not.

Like (almost) everything else in their lives, his flat was the polar opposite of his brother’s. Tidy, modern, small, undisclosed location. Sherlock had never been to Mycroft’s place… or, to be precise, never been invited. It would not have shocked Mycroft if he had been told Sherlock broken into his home. He would have shrugged and replied Sherlock had been invading his personal space since he was old enough to walk and talk. The wheel turns. Nothing changes.

Mycroft deposited his umbrella in its stand, hung up his coat, loosened his tie, and took off his shoes. Sock-footed, he walked over to the small bar in the small lounge, poured himself a large whisky and settled himself down into the tasteful yet comfortable black leather recliner, kicked his feet up and pulled his Smartphone out of his trousers’ pocket.

He needed to be alone with his thoughts. He did not want even Anthea intruding. He was never completely sure of her allegiance anyway – he knew for a fact she briefly worked for that wretched Woman Irene Adler. Mycroft had a detail put on Anthea when he first suspected of her divided loyalties.

Mycroft wasted no more time reminiscing over a high-dollar courtesan. As far as he knew, Irene was dead and buried and good riddance to bad rubbish was his opinion.

Sipping his whisky, he frowned as scrolled through the pictures MI-6 had sent him. They were… worrisome. But there was potential… yes… potential to kill two birds with one stone with the added bonus of settling a score. A very old score. 

He scrolled back a few frames to the picture sent to him earlier, of Sherlock and his new ward walking out of a mobile telephone shop. At least his addiction to technology was tolerable, although Mycroft groaned, thinking about the cost. His brother could live off of cold tea and day-old Chinese take-away, had no desire to purchase any sort of vehicle, never went on holidays and insisted on continuing to live in that run-down block of flats when he could have moved to a nicer part of the city and rented out his old flat. (Mycroft of course knew Sherlock bought the building when he won his libel suit.) But his clothes and shoes had to be designer labels and his gadgets state of the art. Mycroft knew Sherlock had waltzed into the nearest shop, saw the shiniest toy they had to offer and seized it for his own.

Well, it was his trust fund after all. Plus people, corporations, smaller businesses and the police all paid a steep fee for his consulting services. Still the income he generated as a Consulting Detective was merely a drop in the bucket compared to the trust fund their parents set up for him. Not to mention the staggering inheritance the Holmes brothers stood to receive when their parents passed away.

Mycroft sighed, staring at the picture of his brother on his mobile. Did he realize how close their family came to losing everything? And not just the money and property either.  Oh yes, Sherlock knew he had been the sacrificial lamb all those years ago but did he really truly understand how close they had been to complete ruin? He had only been a little boy at the time. Still his startling perception and advanced intelligence was already apparent back then. He might have sensed something was not quite right but he didn’t know how to properly use his gifts yet.

He had been, after all, at the time, just a little boy. People forgot that.

Maybe he hadn’t completely comprehend what had been at stake, maybe still didn’t quite understand now. But he definitely knew it was Mycroft who had betrayed him, Mycroft who didn’t bother to save him and it wouldn’t be the last time Mycroft would forsake him for a Greater Cause… but in that particular circumstance, what could I do? I was only a fourteen year old boy with no power, no friends, no help.

Now Mycroft had power, now he had friends. In very high places. Friends who would help. Friends who owed him not just their lives but the lives of their children.   

And friends he let believe he owed them.

He took another sip of whisky and shut the mobile down. An opportunity had arisen, a chance to really damage what was left of Moriarty’s enterprise. An added bonus of this opportunity was to finally pay a debt he incurred when he was a chubby adolescent, caught up in events he had no control over. Events he had to watch helplessly from the sidelines as they crushed a small child.

And Sherlock had been so small for his age before his teenage years. Our old nanny Rose, the only one he liked, used to call him “Little Stormcrow”… used to infuriate him until I told him King Théoden used to call Gandalf “Stormcrow”  in “The Two Towers”. Then it was perfectly acceptable for her to call him that… but she actually called him that because his black hair. Rose was not a literary aficionado. But really, he really was like a little crow caught up in a storm… buffeted about by the East Wind all the while squawking, trying to get people to pay attention to him...  

Well… he certainly can’t be ignored now, can he?

That brought him right back to his original dilemma of course: I can finally right a wrong committed ages ago... but do I tell my brother? And if I do, how much do I tell him?

By the time he finished his drink, he had made his decision.

His brother would have to remain in the dark.

He unlocked his mobile and sent a text: “Approved”. Then he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, deciding to have a little sleep before tackling the mountain of work that beckoned him.

Sherlock would be furious when he found out what Mycroft had done, but then, that was nothing new.  At any rate, it would be a while before Sherlock realized what was in motion. He had the American to play with, so he would be distracted.

For now.

**

Violet had been surprised when Sherlock had purchased a mobile for her as well as himself. Granted it was not nearly state-of-the-art as his mobile. She also strongly suspected he put her on his plan so he could access her account and view her telephone calls log and text messages. But at least it was a Smartphone and she didn’t have to stretch her limited funds (she was fairly certain if Mycroft hadn’t frozen her accounts, he had them monitored heavily). Plus, if she needed to make private calls, she had her prepaid mobiles and there were always telephone booths.

The sun was setting by the time they left the mobile shop. It had been like dragging a child from a sweet shop or toy store to get Sherlock out of there. But, patiently, Violet reminded him she needed to stop at her office to pick up a few files. Sherlock stopped drooling over the new tablets and paid for the mobiles.

Before she knew it, she was back in the City, back in the heart of the Financial District.

Was it only last night she was leaving the office? Getting ready to bicycle home only to be stopped by John Watson? Would those thugs been waiting for her at her flat if Sherlock and John had not come to the office? What would have happened if she had not given in to temptation and not returned for her dog?

She brushed that thought out of her head. Going back to Gladstone was not a sentimental mistake. As fond of him as she was, she never forgot he was a trained police dog. There had been many times he had been a better weapon than a gun, last night being a perfect example.

“Did anyone follow us?” Violet asked, pausing at the main door, digging through her messenger bag. She had pulled the hood over her head, mostly to shield her face but also because the temperature had dropped as the sun went down.

“No,” Sherlock said as she pulled her access card out of her bag.

Swiping the card, the door beeped and Violet pulled it open. Instead of going to the elevator, she went to the massive desk the vapid receptionist had been sitting at yesterday. She sat down and started furiously typing in something on one of the computers.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, hovering over her shoulders.

“Checking the security feeds,” she murmured. “Stupid bitch that sits here during the day never noticed that I hacked into her computer. I want to make sure we don’t have any surprises waiting for us upstairs,” she said as grainy black-and-white video popped up on the screen. Violet typed in something and the images sped up, but not so fast you couldn’t tell who or what was coming in and out of the main doors. “I’m going to have to re-sync this new cell to this system and the firm’s work system, but I really don’t have time for that right now,” she grumbled as she and Sherlock watched the computer monitor.

“We seem to be in the clear,” Sherlock watched Violet type in something else that caused the feed to slow to a normal speed, showing very clearly Violet and Sherlock walking in and sitting down at the receptionist’s desk.

“Not quite,” she said, typing in another code. When a warning box popped up, asking if she was sure she wanted to delete the last hour of video surveillance, she hit “Yes”.

“Come on,” she said, bolting up, hurrying away from the desk after typing something that put the computer back in hibernation. Impressed, Sherlock was on her heels, glancing behind him to check again that they were not followed.

 The lobby was dark except for security lights. Violet pressed the Up button and the lift doors opened. Violet and Sherlock stepped inside and Violet swiped her card again and pressed the button labeled “8”.

“Your office is on the seventh floor,” Sherlock said mildly.

Violet pushed the hood off her head. “Carruthers Brokerage Firm is on the seventh floor.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “Clever.”

When the lift came to a stop, both the Consulting Detective and the FBI Agent stepped out into a darkened hallway. There were no windows; the only light source was from the lift behind them. But when the doors closed, they were plunged into total blackness.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry as he lost his most useful of his five senses. His skin prickled, his ears rang from the absolute silence of the blackened hall. He found himself inhaling deeply, just in case there some sort scent he could pick up that could provide a valuable clue, but all he smelled was Violet next to him. Then he heard her rummaging in her coat pocket. Suddenly her face was bathed in an eerie fluorescent glow, but it was from the light of her new mobile. She checked the time. “Cleaning crew comes about nine,” she said quietly, using the mobile as a torch to search for something in her bag. She pulled out a proper torch “So we’ve got some time but I don’t want to stay too long here.” She clicked it and pointed down the dark, long hallway. “God, I forgot how creepy this place is.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said as she shone her torch around. “So “hacking” is one of your many talents?” he asked as he followed her down the hall.

“I know enough about computers to be dangerous, but I don’t really consider myself a hacker,” she said as she paused in front of an office door. Handing him the torch, she fumbled around her bag again. There was a jangle of keys “Me and computers are about the same as me and a race car. I can’t build one, I can’t fix one and I don’t always understand the fine details about how they work. But give me the keys, tell me where to go and how fast and I can drive the hell out of it.” She unlocked the office door.

Sherlock followed her inside and Violet re-locked the door. It was a much smaller version of the office he and John had visited yesterday a floor below. Violet did not turn the lights on, but hurried down the hallway after she reclaimed the torch from Sherlock.

The office was completely empty except for desks, chairs and cubicles. There was a stale smell, indicating no one had actively occupied this space for months. A few bits of paper and rubbish were here and there. Not even the cleaning crew had bothered with this room. Sherlock’s eyes and ears strained against the darkness, his entire body tingled with electrifying anticipation and excitement. He felt his heart pounding double-time as Violet led him to the closed door. He couldn’t wait to see what was behind it.  

He did not sense anyone else in the office with them, didn’t observe any sudden movement out of the corner of his eyes, didn’t hear any soft tread of feet on cheap industry carpet, didn’t smell cologne, soap or perfume other than his own (and hers, since she had used his soap. And toothpaste and shampoo. And clothes. Really, they were going to have to have a chat about what was Communal Property and what was Off Limits in the flat.)

She unlocked another door and shone the torch into the executive office before entering. Even though she was satisfied it was empty, only she didn’t dare turn on the lights. “Come on,” she said again, pointing her torch at the desk.

“So,” Sherlock said, entering the room, taking in as much as he could in the dim room until Violet turned on a small lamp with very poor lighting. “Even if the authorities caught scent of your illegal enterprises and decided to pay your office a visit, they wouldn’t find anything.”

“Not a damn thing,” Violet said, taking down a generic picture of Big Ben off the wall behind the desk. An old fashioned wall safe appeared. Sherlock instinctively got out of the line of fire. Violet looked at him over her shoulder. “There’s no rigged gun in there. I don’t feel like getting my face blown off either.” She rotated the dial this way and that, holding the flashlight up to the old round dial. “Funny how these old fashioned things still intimidate most thieves,” she murmured as the door sprung open. She put the flashlight down on the desk and pulled out a small laptop computer. “Nobody’s been here,” she said, examining the layer of dust on the computer. ‘Not sure if that’s good or bad.” She reached into the safe and retrieved the power cord.

“Good because your enemies haven’t found this place yet, bad because you don’t know where Mr. Carruthers is, or if he is even alive.”

“Exactly,” she said, putting the computer down. “Our client list and our agent roster are all backed up on this computer. I flagged the ones that are legitimate and which ones are fronts for drug loads. We’re not dealing with small time gangsters here,” Violet said. “The bad guys we got mixed up with, we’re talking about Afghanistan warlords trying to get heroin into the UK and the rest of Europe. They sell the poppy to the highest bidders here; they get their money for whatever new jihad they are raising against the infidel Americans. The buyers become the sellers and then they need their money washed. So they give us the dirty money and, well you know the rest.” She took out an external hard-drive and deposited it into her messenger bag without a second look. “They make the IRA look like warm fuzzy kittens.” Sensing rather than seeing Sherlock’s quizzical glance she added “Our first customers was the True IRA. The Afghanistan warlords are our latest. And they are delightful people.”

“But why,” Sherlock said “would any agent give your brokerage additional money when they earn a commission directly from whatever insurance company they sell for, a commission your brokerage gets a cut of?”

Violet smiled “We have a pool of Assistant Marketing Specialists, which is an inflated title for office grunts. They’re our telemarketers and appointment setters. Our agents can either cold-call and try to drum up business by themselves, which sucks. It’s time-consuming and most people will tell you to piss off. So instead of dealing with that headache, they can pay us a quarterly fee and be assigned an AMS.”

While she spoke, Violet had turned back to the safe and started pulling out bank bags. “We have a data base of people who email our website asking for additional information about insurance. The AMS gets a list and calls on behalf of the agent she’s assigned to and tries to sets up an appointment for her agent to visit the potential client.”

Boring Sherlock wondered how normal people tolerated their sad, ordinary lives. Especially the ones whose only purpose it seemed to make rich men richer.

Meanwhile, Violet pulled out a gun and checked to see if it was loaded. It was not, so she reached back into the safe and pulled out a clip of bullets. Loading the gun, she said “Since the AMS’s are not licensed agents, they earn a regular paycheck instead of a commission, but their annual bonus is determined by how many appointments they schedule. So that’s one point of entry for the dirty money into our company. A fake agent sends us dirty money, we say it’s his quarterly fee to have a dedicated AMS, then we co-mingle the dirty money with our legitimate money and like I said,” she tucked the gun in the waistband of her trousers and pulled the awful pink coat over it. “You know how it goes from there.” She flipped open the laptop.

“I do,” Sherlock said. “Ingenious. But it’s not just the drugs that made this enterprise so distasteful to you, was it?” But then something caught his quicksilver eyes. Looking down, he saw a thin band of light shining underneath the door.

Someone had turned the main lights outside in the main office.

There was no place to run or hide in this tomb of a room.

“Violet,” he breathed. She looked up from plugging in the laptop computer. Then she took a quick hissed intake of breath when she saw what Sherlock observed. She wordlessly beckoned him to come to her, pulling out the gun she just put down the back of her trousers waistband. She un-safetied it and handed it to Sherlock when he came to her side.

Violet reached underneath the desk and pulled out another gun. Slowly, silently she un-safetied it and steadily pointed it at the door, her face impassive.

Extremely disconcerting to see her like this: puffy pink coat, librarian’s spectacles and chestnut hair in a knot at the nape of her neck, pointing a gun at the door, with every intention to kill.

She gave a gentle nudge with her shoulder and he understood she wanted him to move out of the line of direct fire if the door suddenly burst open. His heart beat at a staccato rate now.

Friend or foe, what lurked outside that door?

And wasn’t she the trusting soul to give him a loaded gun?

The door creaked slowly open, by inches. A gun slowly showed itself, pointing at the desk. Whoever held the gun would be able to see the picture of Big Ben off the wall, the safe door hanging wide open. “Shit…” a man’s voice murmured.

“Stop,” Violet said, using her “true” voice. “Drop the weapon.”

She didn’t sound like an out-of-tune piano anymore when she spoke with her real accent. But there was no music whatever in her true voice where at least her faux British accent sounded pleasantly refined. Her true voice was cold, flat and dispassionate.

She sounded like a cop.

“Violet,” the man said, relief evident in his voice. “It’s me, it’s Bear.”

Ah the elusive Robert Carruthers, Sherlock thought, recognizing the man’s voice but taking note Violet did not lower her weapon.

“Are you alone?” she asked briskly.

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’m not,” Violet said. “Put the gun down.”

“Jesus, Vi…” but the gun lowered.

“Put it on the floor and kick it away from you. Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

“I taught you too well,” but he obeyed. The gun did not slid easily on the carpeted floor when he kicked it, but it moved far away enough from “Bear” to suit Violet, who keeping her gun and eyes trained on the door, cautiously walking towards where “Bear’s” gun landed.

Even when she saw Robert “Bear” Carruthers standing in the doorframe, obviously alone, hands up, she kept her gun pointed at him. Only when she picked up “Bear’s” gun and straightened up did she lower her weapon. “So that’s how I missed you on the security feeds.”

Robert Carruthers fully entered the room. He also looked worse for wear. Unlike the sleekly groomed business man Sherlock met yesterday, he had shaved and was wearing a security guard’s uniform. “You said you weren’t alon- what the fuck?” he said when he saw Sherlock.

“He’s OK,” Violet said. “I got made last night.”

“By who?” Carruthers asked.

“My brother,” Sherlock said, deciding it would be polite to lower his gun as well “Who you both know is no minor government bureaucrat,” he added as Violet handed Carruthers’ gun back to him then put the gun she had pulled out from under the desk into the waistband of her khakis.

“It was decided that I’m more valuable alive and free than dead or imprisoned or returned to the States so somehow Mr. Holmes,” Violet tilted her head towards Sherlock “Is my keeper until further notice.”

Carruthers pulled a face. “Not sure I like that idea.”

“What other choice do I have?” Violet snapped. “As if I couldn’t leave before, I really can’t leave the country now since I’m officially on their radar. It’s too risky and expensive to have someone try smuggling me out of the county, that’s how Diesel got killed.”

“OK, OK,” Carruthers said, also putting his gun away. (Sherlock did not, but he pointed it at the floor.) “I don’t want you coming to the office. I’ll let the staff know you had a personal emergency and will be out for an undetermined amount of time. It wouldn’t be a lie. I knew you were in trouble when I saw the news about the fires in the City.”

“You can’t come back here either,” Violet said. “You’ve got just as big of a bull’s eye on your back as I do.”

“Somebody has got to get the people who work here out of the line of fire,” Carruthers said. “Since Big Brother,” he glanced at Sherlock sideways “is watching you now, its better that I tie up the loose ends with the firm-“

“Nobility is insipid,” Sherlock interrupted. “If you had been honest with me yesterday, this could have been resolved with the minimum of fuss and you probably could have carried on with your criminal enterprise provided I could lead Scotland Yard towards the people blowing up surgeries and methadone clinics in poor parts of major cities. That’s all NSY cares about, really.”

“This,” Violet said shortly to Carruthers “is where I get to tell you ‘I told you so.’”

“As it is inadvisable to stay in this building for much longer, might I propose an alternative venue so we can discussion what has transpired in the past twenty-four hours and only this time, you will not lie to me, starting with your real name, if you please.”

Violet nodded encouragingly at Carruthers. “He’s going to figure out anyway so you might as well get it over with.”

“My name is Robert Carson,” he said. “I was one of the Section Chiefs in the VICAP division at the FBI and I’m also a retired Army Ranger.”

“So nice to finally meet you,” Sherlock drawled. “Violet, did you retrieve everything you need from here?”

“I did,” Violet said, walking over to close the safe. She put the computer and one of the bank bags into her messenger bag then tried to hand the other bank bag to Carson. “I’m assuming you might need this?”

He pushed the bag back into her hands. “Keep it, I’m assuming Big Brother is watching your bank accounts as well plus you probably lost everything in the fire?”

“Bombing,” Sherlock corrected brusquely. “And yes Mycroft is probably monitoring her financial transactions, if he hasn’t frozen her accounts completely, making her absolutely dependant on me. As touching as your gesture is, not very practical as my brother is nearly as good at deductions as I am and it will not take him long to connect the dots between you and Miss Hunter here, if he hasn’t already. Take the money she is offering her and let us leave this place before some unwanted guests decided to pay a visit.”

“Where are we going?” Violet said as Sherlock swiftly snatched up the now very heavy messenger bag. He earned a foul look from Violet but since he handed her the other gun as he breezed out of the office so it seemed like a fair trade-off. Plus the messenger bag looked fairly masculine so it didn’t look ridiculous for him to carry it. Violet repeated herself “Where are we going?” Then added “Not back to Baker Street?”

“No,” Sherlock called from outside the office, “Mr. Carson, did you drive?”

“No, I took the subway.”

Rolling his eyes at Carson’s use of “subway” instead of “tube, Sherlock said “Perfect. And I’m assuming you have a change of clothes, yes?” he said as he eyed a “getaway bag” , a rucksack similar to Violet on top of the desk the PA would have sat at if this office space was properly in use.

 “Yeah, said Carson, putting the bank bag inside his ugly security guard jacket He scooped up the rucksack from the desk. “Follow me. We’ll take the service elevator.”

“No,” Sherlock said “Stairwell,” and he turned on his heel and walked through the deserted office space, leaving the former FBI agents no choice but to follow.  

Taking the back stairwell, they hurried out of the office building. In the alley behind the building, Sherlock told Carson succinctly where he wanted to go. He also gave Carson his mobile number in case they got separated. Carson, after giving Violet an apprehensive look, nodded and started walking. Sherlock and Violet waited a few minutes, then Sherlock twitched the faux-fur-trimmed hood back over Violet’s head and put his arm around her shoulders and together they hit the pavement, heading towards the nearest tube station.

Just a nice couple taking a walk. Completely innocent.

And the security guard a few paces ahead of them had just finished his shift, making his way to the tube to go home. Completely normal.

Before they knew it, the three of them arrived at King’s Cross. Sherlock led Violet to a trendy pool hall. Violet lifted her eyebrows, but said nothing, following the Great Detective instead. After they found a secluded place in the noisy hall to sit, they tried to pretend to chat but they ended up squabbling about Violet using Sherlock’s toiletries and stealing his shirt.

“Really? After everything that’s happened in the past day and a half, you’re going to bitch about me borrowing your shirt? That’s a priority right now?”

“If you and I are going to co-exist peacefully together, then I would appreciate you not just nicking my possessions when the mood strikes. I do not think that is an unreasonable request.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you never borrowed anything of John’s without his permission.” 

Sherlock was saved by Carson sitting down next to Violet. He had changed out of the security guard uniform so not to attract any more attention. He now wore jeans, a black sweater and leather jacket. He looked like an American tourist.

The din from the snooker tables was deafening, which was exactly what Sherlock wanted. He wanted both Carson and Violet to speak freely. “Tell me everything,” he said briskly “The truth this time, if you please.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: The Silver Fox

1 April 2008
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington DC
Tuesday
10:00 AM

Special Agent-in-Charge Jonathan “Jack” Woodley tapped on the door frame since the door to Section Chief Robert Carson’s cramped office was wide open. Files covered every flat surface, including the floor. “Wanted to see me, Bear?”

Carson put down the Blackberry he had been reading. “Hey Jack, have a seat, leave the door open, gets stuffy in here.” He reclined in his chair as Jack sat down in one of the chairs in front of Carson’s desk. The chair squeaked under his bulk.

Other than the military-short haircuts and Bureau approved suits and ties, the two men could not have looked and acted more differently. Tall, broad-shouldered and brown hair, it was no surprise how Carson had initially earned the nickname “Bear” even when he had been in high school. The nickname had followed him into the Rangers and then the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had been scouted by colleges as a high school sophomore and might have had shot to play pro football, but his desire to serve his country outweighed his desire to throw a ball around and get tackled by jocks jacked upon steroids.   

Jack on the other hand, was slender and cerebral. Not nearly as tall as Carson but he was only shorter than him by an inch or two. However, he had been a Ranger as well, but his lean build hid his strength where Carson’s was undeniable. Blue-eyed, thin-lips and a perfectly straight nose, he looked like an ancient Roman patrician, especially when he started going gray prematurely. But he was easy-going and good-natured so oddly, the gray worked. Some of the women at the Bureau called him “The Silver Fox”.

That nickname suited him for another reason. Sly, subtle, fiercely intelligent, Jack Woodley was not one of the top profilers in VICAP, he was The Profiler. He enters the minds of his targets with the same hungry pleasure as a fox’s when he slinks into the farmer’s chicken coops.

“What’s up?”

“How do you feel about a trip across the pond, all on the Bureau’s dime?”

“When, how long and where across the pond?”

“Leave the 30^th, gone for ten days and Ye Olde Merry England.”

Jack creased his brow. “And why are our tax payers sending us to England?”

Carson produced a folder and held it out to Jack. They had met while in the Rangers, they were closer than brothers. Sometimes Carson felt like Jack could read his mind and that was OK. “An international conference regarding kidnap situations, especially children. The Brits have invited us along with a few other countries to discuss better international cooperation between countries when a child goes missing in a foreign country.”

“Madeleine McCann,” Jack said immediately.

“Among others, but yes, she’s the most recent. And, well, you, me and the whole goddamn world saw how that was handled. Plus, there’s the other problem of two parents of different nationalities separating and one parent takes the kid back to their home country and the other parent has no legal right to get the kid back.”

“So we’re expected to solve international kidnapping in ten days? Jesus,” Jack thumbed through the file “Why don’t we just find bin Laden over the weekend too while we’re at it?”

“CIA has jurisdiction over that,” Carson said. “Look, the conference is bullshit, you know it, I know it, but right now that dumbass Senator Woodhouse decided we need to keep our allies happy in order to keep the wars going. It would make one of our biggest allies very happy if we assembled a team of experts and head over for a week and a half for tea and crumpets and talk about saving the children of the world. Since Woodhouse is on the committee that determines our budgets, our Deputy Director hinted very strongly that this time I play nicely and comply.”

Jack snorted. “So who gets to tag along on this photo-op?”

Carson handed him a legal pad “Wanted to get your opinion.”

Jack leaned forward again, put the folder back on Carson’s desk and took the legal pad. “Special Agent Steven Morgan,” he read aloud. “Special Agent Dorothy Sweeney, Special Agent Janet Cooper, Special Agent Vincent Van Sant, Special Agent Violet… Hunter?” He looked up at Carson; his slender silver brows furrowed “Agent Hunter?”

“You have an objection?”

Jack shook his head “No. Just surprised. Not sure why you want two language experts along, since Morgan’s going. Also,” he grinned “don’t understand why you need two profilers.”

“Worried she’s going to outshine you?” Carson grinned but sobered up. “You’re right, two profilers are redundant for something like this, but Hunter also is fluent in Spanish, French and German… Worked in the New Mexico field office when she first graduated from Quantico. Did good work down there too.”

“I heard,” Jack said solemnly, then smirked “Heard you pissed the New Mexico field office too when you had her reassigned here.”

“She’s more of an asset here than on the border. Since the French and Germans are invited to this shindig the Brits are throwing, I thought her skill set would be useful. She was born in Germany, did you know that?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “I knew she was an Army brat before she even opened her mouth just like she figured out I was a retired Ranger before I even said hello.”

Carson rolled his eyes and shook his head. Profilers. “She also has a rudimentary grasp on Russian and is currently studying Farsi. I’d prefer to bring my own language experts than rely on whatever interpreters they have there. Plus Agent Morgan is her partner and it would be good experience for her.”

Jack nodded. “OK, that makes sense then. So, I agree to Morgan and Hunter, since they are our language experts. Agent Sweeney, of course, what would we do without Dixie,” he said warmly of his colleague. Dixie was as much of a fixture of the Bureau as J. Edgar himself, since she had one of the main architects of VICAP’s many databases, the official ones and the not-so-official ones. “She may even have good ideas that are actually implementable. Yes to Vincent Van Sant but swap out Agent Cooper for Agent Bill Curack, he’s a religions expert, especially the Middle Eastern religions, which is where we seem to encounter the most difficulty when the dads decide they’ve had enough of America and their American wives but still want their kids.”

“OK then,” Carson said, taking back the legal pad and crossing off Cooper’s name. “Well, I suppose I should tell the kids the good news.”

“I’m sure they’ll all be absolutely thrilled.”

“Anyone would be thrilled to get the hell out of DC during an election year.”

Jack laughed “No shit, but next time,” he stood up “Can’t the conference be in Hawaii or the Caribbean? Warm beaches, women in bikinis?”

Carson chuckled and shook his head “Get out and send in Hunter.”

Jack gave Carson a casual wave for a goodbye. Shortly, Special Agent Violet Hunter appeared. “You wanted to see me, sir?” she said politely, holding her briefcase in front of her.

Carson looked up, all brevity gone from his face. “Yes. Shut the door”

Agent Hunter complied and sat down, hands her lap, waiting.

Even in a drab black suit and charcoal blouse, she still looked fairly attractive. She had a curly crop of light brown curls (or dark blonde, depending on how the light hit it) and freckles on her nose and cheeks. However, too much time at her desk had caused her to pack on a little weight. Hollywood and fashion magazines would call her obese. Everyone else would consider her weight “normal”. For the most part, she looked pretty but forgettable… except for her eyes, the only brown eyes in the world not soft and warm. More like the gemstone topaz, they flashed and glittered, especially when her “spidey-sense” (as Carson called it) started tingling. During interrogations, Carson had watched her reduce hardened criminals to tears when those sharp eyes finally caught the detail she could use to break them, get what she needed or wanted.

Sweet was not a word he would use to describe her but there was no use for sweet at the FBI.

“We got a break in the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase,” he said curtly, butchering the French pronunciation.   

Violet didn’t give a damn about the pronunciation, it was what he said not how that held her complete and utter attention. Her eyes locked on his. “Where are we going?”

“England,” he said, pulling a key out of his suit jacket pocket. As he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, he said “We leave on the 30^th. You have between now and the day before we leave to tell me everything you can find out about three people,” he pulled out two thick manila files, stamped “Eyes Only”, listing his name, her name, Special Agent Dorothy Sweeney and the Assistant Director of the FBI.

Violet stood up and took the files. She did not sit down again but flipped open the first jacket, “Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, the Earl of Winchester. Old family, old money, member of the House of Lords… I need to brush up on the British governing system. Definitely need a crash course on the British peerage,” she bit her lower lip as she skimmed through the first page.

“We think he’s the money, not just old money,” Carson said as Violet put the file back down on his desk. “Old family doesn’t scratch the surface. He can trace his lineage back to Tudor times.”

“Culpepper was the last name of the supposed lover of Henry VIII’s fifth wife… I wouldn’t exactly brag about being related to the guy who was executed for nailing a murderous tyrant’s child bride,” Violet murmured as she examined a surveillance photograph. 

“Well, he can definitely brag about the money, he comes from a long line of shrewd businessmen. This particular Earl of Winchester had the foresight to get into technology right before the boom and to get out before the bubble burst.”

“Good cover story,” Violet said, holding up the photograph. “Not very pretty, is he?”

“No,” Carson said. “They say the burns cover forty percent of his body. Caused by a car accident while coming home from a New Year’s Eve party. Never married, never had kids. No siblings. Parents are deceased. Only living relative is the daughter of a cousin who moved to New York. She became a US citizen years ago.”

“Hm,” Violet popped the photo back into the file and put it down on Carson’s desk. She opened the second file, considerably thinner than the first. “Mycroft Holmes.” She skimmed the first page of this file as well. “A junior government official?” She looked over the top of the file at Carson. “Since we’re interested in him, I’m assuming that’s bullshit?”

“You assume correctly, Agent Hunter. Also from an old family, also old money, but not part of the peerage. Family has a history for producing eccentrics and geniuses. Holmes was one of the geniuses, got all these awards and honors while in school, attended Eton and Oxford, looked like he was the fast-track to a promising law career… then after graduating, disappeared from the grid for over a year, to reappear as a “junior government official” and has never been officially promoted from that office. If that doesn’t reek of bullshit, then I don’t know what does.”

“Jesus… 195 IQ,” she murmured “So would it be safe to say he probably caught the eye of either MI-6 or Her Majesty’s Royal Secret Service?”

“HMR-double-S doesn’t exist,” Carson said with a smile.

Violet snorted “Yeah and neither does Rouge Dirigé Liguecase.” She pronounced it correctly.

“Show-off,”

She studied Mycroft’s surveillance photograph as well. “Family?”

“Father is retired, mother is semi-retired, she was some sort of mathematical wunderkind, especially with dealing with child prodigies-“

“Makes sense,” Violet said, still studying the picture. “Who’s the dark haired man with Holmes?” she held it up for Carson to see.

Carson squinted, “Oh, the younger brother. Remember when I said the Holmes family produces eccentrics and geniuses?”

“Ah,” Violet said, looking back at the photograph “The eccentric. Is he the third person of interest? Or is it the daughter of the Earl’s cousin? You said to tell you everything about three people and you only gave me two files.”

“The cousin’s daughter has already been checked out. She’s clean. I want to know everything about Mycroft Holmes, which includes his younger brother but he is not a person of interest,” Bear said soberly “At least, not yet.”

“OK. So how does the older brother fit in?”

“Family connection. Holmes’ father wasn’t the original heir to the estate. There was an older brother, Rudolph Holmes, Mycroft’s “Uncle Rudy”. He was heir apparent but he and his wife was killed in an unfortunate car accident…” Bear cleared his throat. “So they say… Others may say Rudy’s eccentric nature and open bisexuality infuriated the wrong people and… well, let’s just say nothing is as it appears with this family.”

“I hate these people already.”

Bear allowed himself a small grin.”Uncle Rudy dies. Daddy Holmes inherits all the money and properties and manages to almost lose everything in the early Eighties. That’s when the Earl’s father bailed Old Man Holmes out. Oh it was promoted as a joint-business-venture, a partnership but it was common knowledge the Old Earl saved the Old Holmes’ ass. Apparently genius and eccentricity skipped a generation; Old Holmes is rumored to be not exactly to be the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Eventually though, the Holmes recovered their fortune, everyone became richer and all lived happily ever after.”

“Mycroft and Heathcliff were friends when they were kids,” Violet said, flipping through the pages of the file again. “Or at least knew each other. They went to the same schools.”

“And wouldn’t it be convenient to have your own junior government official in your pocket?”

“Incredibly convenient,” Violet said. “Who’s the third POI?”

Carson leaned forward in his chair, clasping his big hand in front of him. “Violet,” he said quietly, “There’s a reason why there are only four names for “Eyes Only” access.”

Violet closed her own eyes “Oh my God.”

Neither said the word out loud but it hung heavy in the air. Treason.

“How do we know this?”

“The Al-Qaeda is getting protection from the Rouge. For a hefty fee, the Rouge help provide the Al-Qaeda safe passage through the Middle East to Europe so they can move heroin and their other… products,” Carson said sourly. “The Rouge was tipped off about four pending US strikes against Al-Qaeda locations they stop at for product pick-up.”

“Oh God,” Violet covered her mouth and held Mycroft Holmes’ file to her chest.

“Dixie confirmed it. Took her months to confirm… but she did.”

“How?”

“Our bad guy used the VICAP systems to hack into the Pentagon.”

“Jesus. Jesus Christ,” Suddenly chilled to the bone, Violet whispered “Bear…”    

Carson pushed the legal pad he had given Jack only a few minutes ago. “Dixie obviously is not a person of interest but… I’ve narrowed it down to these agents.”

Violet read the list, still feeling cold but also now feeling sick.  Her partner was top of the list. “Steve,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, Vi,” Carson said sorrowfully.

She silently read the list “Bill and Diesel too?”

“Watch them,” he said sternly. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks. Don’t follow them home or sit in your car outside their houses, I’ve got other people handling that. Watch them here; watch them when we’re in London. I need information.  I need you to profile these people. I need everything you see and everything you dig up on my desk as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” Violet said, getting her emotions under control.

“Discretion is everything, Violet,” Carson said. “Jack is coming with and he doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

Something twanged inside of Violet. “Is he a -“

“No,” Carson said firmly.

“Then why me and not him?”

“Because I trust your judgment, you’re a good profiler and you’re fluent in multiple languages. It’s a multinational conference, which means multiple languages. You can hear and observe things Jack can’t,” Carson said simply. “This is not my choice. I would have included him in this as well, but the order came from on high. It’s “Eyes Only” for us four only.”

“OK,” Violet said, putting Mycroft’s folder down on the desk. She picked up her briefcase and opened the lid. “I’ll get to work.”

As she put the Earl’s file and Mycroft’s file in her case, Carson said “One more thing. When I say discretion is everything, I mean discretion is everything. I don’t want to read about this on the cover of the New York Times tomorrow.”

Violet gave her superior a look bordering on insubordination. “I tell my brother nothing.” 

“Good,” Carson said. “Keep it that way.”

**

9 May 2008
Holiday Inn Express, London
Friday
7:11 PM

It had done nothing but rain since they touched down at Heathrow Airport.

From the sprint from the cab to the hotel, Violet was soaked to the bone.

Once inside the hotel room she shared with Special Agent Dorothy “Dixie” Sweeney, Violet decided, once again, that she really hated England. Or at least London. Dull, damp, gray, depressing. This place could give Seattle a run for its money in amounts of rainfall and suicides.

 Violet stripped off her sopping wet coat while kicking off her nice black loafers. Her wet socks squished between her toes so she bent down to peel them off. She straightened and examined herself in the mirror, dropping the wet socks to put her hands around her waist, frowning. Too many late nights at the office, too many runs to the vending machine and pop machine, not enough runs at the gym. She thought of her neglected yoga mat and running shoes back home and resolved to get back into a workout routine once she was back in DC.

On the other side, she felt confident she dropped five pounds this past week. English food really was as terrible as non-English people said it was. Beans with toast for breakfast? Really? She craved Dunkin Donuts and a caramel latte from Caribou Coffee.

She looked at herself in the mirror, seeing something else in her reflection she didn’t like: indecision. Uncertainty.

She hoped no one else noticed.

Shivering, she turned away, debating between a bath and a shower. To soak in a tub full of hot soapy water with a tumbler of good scotch (God bless Scotland) sounded like bliss but she doubted her brain would turn off as she wallowed in the water. So she opted for a quick shower, comfortable, warm clothes and to use her brain instead of shutting down.

That decision may have saved her life.

Violet, after towel drying her hair, (the short curls even more unmanageable in this damp climate) sat in the middle of her bed with a cup of strong coffee and her laptop and her Blackberry. She sat for a moment, sipping her coffee, not turning on her devices yet. She wanted to think, to ponder over what she saw and heard at the final day of the utterly unproductive and useless conference. Sorry taxpayers, she thought.  

She shivered again, bolted off the bed and went to her briefcase, opened it, pulled out her gun, checked it, loaded it then sat down on the edge of her bed. She had been in tight situations before, even fired her gun once, when a situation went south during a drugs bust in New Mexico. She had interrogated hardened “OG” drug dealers without flinching when they threatened to do all sorts of unpleasant things to her genitalia with sharp instruments. She had gone nose-to-nose with other agents who thought she was too young, too female and too blonde to be one of them. She had been an Army brat until her father had been killed. Then she transformed herself into a small town jock where she endured softballs lobbed at her face and cleats dug her legs but she stood up, bruised, bloodied and asked for more, swinging her bat, daring the other high school girls to fuck with her, no seriously, just do it, I dare you.

Fear normally was not in her personal lexicon because she simply did not have time for it.

Until now.

She knew denial and disbelief clouded her judgment, which only intensified her fear, this sick, swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach. Even after the hot shower, she felt intensely cold.

What she saw and heard happened so quickly, if her attention had been diverted somewhere else, if she had turned her head because someone had called her name, she would never had noticed, would have completely missed it. But she just happened to look up from her Blackberry just in time to witness…

But it can’t be…

Violet shook her head, as if her memories were an Etch-a-sketch and the vision would just go away. Of course it didn’t work that way, memories can’t be erased, can’t be deleted.

Earlier this morning, during a brief recess, Violet had received a text regarding a cold case she had been working off and on for a few years now, more of a hobby than anything else. The text was about a possible lead, could be nothing, was probably nothing…she sent a quick reply, saying she’d look back to it when she was back in the US, then she looked up, just in time to see Jack shake the Earl’s hand…

“Heath, it’s been a pleasure working with you…”

The Earl looked like the love child between Freddy Kruger and the Batman villain Two-Face. Half his face was aged and handsome; the face one would expect a wealthy English lord to have. The other half was covered with pink ropy scar tissue. He was missing an eyebrow. He was lucky to still have use of both eyes.

The Earl nodded, murmured his thanks and politely extricated his hand from Jack’s. Jack patted the Earl on the upper arm turned and saw Violet looking straight into his eyes.

Violet felt her mouth go completely dry as her heart began to pound wildly. No…

Jack.

The entire exchange between the Earl and Jack took maybe three, four seconds. It was all the time necessary for Jack to give himself completely away.

The question, Violet asked herself, clutching her gun, is did I give myself away?

She had looked up from her Blackberry, saw Jack shake the Earl’s hand, turn and look at her. She was sure, she was positive her face was neutral; she spent too many years perfecting her poker face, started at a young age. Had to, when you were an Army brat, moving from school to school, country to country, in order to survive the elementary school hierarchy she encountered. Nothing was more merciless than little girls when you were the new kid.

But Jack was older, more experienced, he was The Silver Fox, he was FBI Legend. He gave lectures at major universities about the science of profiling. He didn’t start VICAP but helped with its evolution. He was VICAP. He had been playing mind games much longer than she had. 

He also helped Dixie design the updated computer system used today.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, then out her nose, cleansing breaths, calming breaths. OK, you suspect. You don’t have proof. Bear wants tangible proof. A three second glance is not hard evidence. You can’t tell him his best friend is a traitor without hard facts.

So who can help me?  

She toyed again with the idea of leaning on Mycroft, but immediately dismissed it again as folly. Profiling him was easy and difficult. Upon their first meeting, the chill radiated from him before she was even formally introduced to him. Oh, he was polite, but with a slight air of disdain Violet detected from everyone with a higher than average IQ. Oh look at the mere mortals scrambling around struggling. How precious.

He had sat quietly during the farce, listening while taking occasional notes, checking his Blackberry unobtrusively every now and then. He did not speak unless his opinion was asked for but the depth of his answers impressed even Violet, who knew the depth of his genius. Oh yes, on the surface, he was a mild-mannered, slightly chilly man with an extremely dry sense of humor who thought before he spoke. What lay below the layers of ice, Violet couldn’t tell.   

That worried her. Are you a good witch or a bad witch Mr. Holmes?

Violet closed her eyes, thinking about everything she had learned about Mycroft and the Earl in the past three weeks and her last confidential conversation with Bear before they left for this soggy gray city on this godforsaken island:

“There’s a reason why the Earl isn’t married, doesn’t have children and it’s not because he’s ugly. He’s not just rich, he’s filthy rich. The European aristocracy has been throwing their daughters at him for years.”

“What did you find out?”

“He likes little boys.”

Bear had nodded, his face twisted in disgust “Makes sense, giving the Rouge’s reputation for offering protection to human traffickers. They’re into subservience. How did you reach that conclusion?”

“Anonymous source…”

“God damn it,” Bear had exploded. “I told you not to tell your brother.”

“I was running out of time. I had shit to connect the Earl to the Rouge. Michael doesn’t know why I need to know and he promised me he wouldn’t run the story.” Until it was completed and he could have exclusive interviews she had silently added in her head.

Bear’s face reddened with anger but he had asked “The evidence is solid?”

“Rock solid,” Violet had assured him. “You know Michael, he does his homework. Look, this Lord Motherfucker has been abusing little boys since he was a teenager, OK? He got involved with the Rouge because he nearly got busted during an excursion to Thailand and they bailed him out. He pays them to protect him as he continues to indulge in his vices and they use his money to protect the Al-Qaeda. Under the Rouge’s protection, they can continue selling heroin that funds their attacks against our soldiers and our country.”

“The trick will be getting the Brits to agree to extradite the Earl to us. They may want to prosecute him themselves.”

“No offense Bear, but who cares? British prison, US prison, does jurisdiction really matter at this point? I don’t care what jail he dies in, just as long he’s inside one and he’s the catcher instead of the pitcher for once.”

“If he has as much money as you say he does and has the legal and illegal connections you indicate he does, it won’t be as easy as slapping handcuffs on him and saying ‘Book ‘em Danno’,  you know that. He’s a means to the end. He can get us to the Rouge, who can get us to the Al-Qaeda. We need to figure out who in the hell in our house is tipping him off?”

Violet remembered feeling a ten-ton-brick lifting off her chest when she discovered her partner Special Agent Steven Morgan had a solid alibi every time someone had accessed the VICAP computer systems and used it as a back door to access the Pentagon systems. Both he and Violet had been out in the field on cases when the hacking occurred, the last two locations they had been at had zero reception. How could he hack into one of the most secure computer systems in the world if neither one of them could make a simple phone call or send a text?

That left Vincent Van Sant and Bill Curack. On the surface, Bill appeared to be the logical choice. Shaved head, goatee, short and barreled-chested, he studied religions extensively (some would argue obsessively) especially the Middle Eastern religions. He easily navigated through the subtle nuances between the Shiite and Sunni sects of Islam.

He was almost reverent regarding the subject.

But he had been just as devout when discussing the history of Ireland and Catholicism when he was investigating suspected IRA cells in the US. He knew more about the religion she had been baptized and raised in.

Plus, Violet accurately determined, after spending an afternoon with him, Bill was actually agnostic, borderline atheist.

Vincent Van Sant, coffee-colored skin, gray haired and better known as “Diesel”, could list every drug cartel and gang organization on both sides of the Atlantic. He knew who controlled the money and who handled distribution. His mixed race heritage allowed him to spend years in deep undercover on the East Coast in the Eighties when coke was king. He had gotten made, gotten shot, nearly died. Upon recovery, he had been reassigned to teach at Quantico, but he floated between Virginia and DC, especially when they needed his gang-warfare expertise.

Both Diesel and Bill were on the same team Jack had been when the VICAP computer systems were being redesigned for improved efficiency and security. All three of them were fairly proficient with computers, but not as good as Dixie or the other analysts. But they knew enough to be able to explain exactly to the programmers and designers what they needed the VICAP systems to do. Would John or Bill know enough how to have a backdoor built in? Or a way to connect the FBI systems to the Pentagon?

That breach of security terrified her. She also realized a week before leaving that British conference was also used as a smokescreen, to buy both the FBI and the Pentagon time to close up the back doors and strengthen their system security. Dixie and Violet both opined maybe the doors should be left open just a little bit longer to see if they could catch the rat in the act, but the Pentagon and Homeland Security put their feet down. They were not going to risk the lives of American soldiers to gamble if and when the rat was going to creep back in. In the end, Violet, a soldier’s daughter, agreed with their decision.

No one but a military family knows the piercing agony of seeing that car appearing in your driveway and two soldiers and a chaplain getting out. 

Bill or Diesel, Bill or Diesel, round and round the names had spun in her head, but now there was only Jack. She carefully put the gun down on her bed and rubbed her forehead.

It was Jack. Not Bill or Diesel.

Goddamn it, Jack why? She agonized, debating, fighting with herself. She knew Bear would absolutely strangle her. Possibly even write her up or fire her if he knew what she had just decided to do but she didn’t care. She needed help.

There was a sour taste in her mouth as the realization finally sunk in how over her head she really was. She had innocently thought Bear had needed her help with “an interesting assignment” when he approached her a year ago about the Rouge.

Interesting. Ha.

She got up, went to her purse and took out her personal cell phone, her old Motorola RAZR, what her brother affectionately called her “ghetto phone”. Need to upgrade Sis, he’d tease her.

Got another name for you to dig into, Little Brother she thought as she scrolled through her contact list with one hand, the other still holding her gun.

There was a soft knock as the RAZR’s cursor highlighted Michael Hunter’s name. Violet jumped, then said in a calm voice “Dixie, did you forget your key?”

Her finger was on the trigger.

“It’s me, Hunter, open up.”   

Violet relaxed and snapped her old flip phone shut. Her partner. Steve. She put the gun and phone back in her purse and opened the door. Blonde, blue eyed, tan, he looked like the stereotypical California Surfer Dude. “Hey Morgan, what’s up?” she said, opening the door wider.

“What’s up is we’re going on a pub crawl,” he said, eyeing her enormous red hoodie, a faded Pearl Jam t-shirt and black yoga pants. “Get dressed. Something cute.”

Violet rolled her eyes. She liked Steve, trusted him with her life, but when he was off duty, he was Off Duty. His idea of a good time was not always her idea of a good time. “I have a lot of work to do plus I do not want to be hung-over on an eight-hour flight back home.”

“Oh come on Vi, one drink is not going to kill you,” Steve gave her his best Puppy Dog eyes.

But Violet narrowed her own eyes. Something was wrong. He never called her Vi. Only Bear called her Vi. Everyone else called her Hunter. “OK, fine, come in, you’re making me nervous standing there in the doorway,” she let him inside.

He quickly shut the door and locked both the dead bolt and the chain link. “Get dressed,” he said tensely, all pretense of flirtation gone. “We have to go. Right now.”

“What is going on?” Violet said but her heart started to pound again.

“Tell you on the way. Take what you can only carry in your purse.”

Violet swallowed then turned to her suitcase, pulling out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a warm sweater and socks. She stripped and dressed quickly without excusing herself from the room. Something in Steve’s voice told her there was no time to waste with modesty.

He was a closeted gay man anyway, so she had nothing he was remotely interested in.

Not that he was even paying attention to Violet anyway. He had grabbed her laptop and taken it to the bathroom. She heard the bathtub water running and closed her eyes. So her laptop was toast. Not that she kept any confidential files on there anyway. That was what the Blackberry and flash drives were for and those were always with her.

She shoved her feet into a pair of black boots. She scooped up the Blackberry and tucked it in the back pocket of her jeans. It was off so she wasn’t worried about it being traced or hacked into. Yet. She went over to her purse, pulled her gun back out and stuck it down the back of her jeans. She looped her purse over her shoulder, then put her coat back on, still wet from earlier.

She was zipping up her coat when Steve came back with the wet computer. “Got any other compromising or sensitive information?”

Violet shook her head.

She was not giving him her Blackberry or flash drives. Not until she knew exactly what the hell was going on… but if she had to eventually surrender them. She knew all the information she had complied regarding the Rouge was backed up and in safekeeping.

If you could call her journalist brother: “safekeeping.”

“Give me your cell.”

Violet reluctantly handed over her RAZR. Steve immediately cracked the phone apart, taking out the SIM card. He retreated into the bathroom again and Violet heard the toilet flush and knew the SIM card was gone.  

Steve came out again, took one look at her bare head then raided her suitcase, finding a scarf. He draped it over her hair and Violet tied it, pulling it forward to better hide her face.  He pulled his hood over his head. “Let’s go.”

They left the room without looking back.

Twenty minutes, two men, disguised as maintenance, entered. They tore the room apart, throwing Violet’s clothes and paperwork everywhere. They took with them the useless water-damaged computer, but left the broken RAZR.

Violet and Steve meanwhile, had run across the street to hail a cab. “What the hell?” Violet said to Steve as the rain poured down. She was glad she had enough sense to grab Dixie’s umbrella before leaving. It shielded their faces from sight as well from the rain.

Steve put his arm around Violet’s shoulders and leaned down as if to give her a kiss. “Bear told you to get you,” he murmured in her ear. “We’ve been burned.”

Violet froze. “We? You and me?”

“The entire team,” he said as a cab slowed to a stop. “Tell you more when we get to the safe house,” he opened the cab door for Violet.

Burned? Safe house? These were words used in action movies, not real life.

But she couldn’t ask anything more, she slid into the cab, staring apprehensively at the back of the driver’s head. Suddenly, every living person in this city was a threat.

Soon, they were let off in a part of the city Violet was completely unfamiliar with. She quickly walked, arm –and-arm with Steve to a bus stop. They hopped onto a bus that took them to an absolutely shady looking part of the city. Violet felt her hands tremble and she balled them into fists, torn between fury and abject terror. Fury seemed better, more powerful.

Not as crippling as fear.

When they got off the bus, Steve said, “Come on, this way,” he said. He stayed as close to her as possible, holding her hand on the bus while keeping his hand firmly on the gun in his pocket.

Now he put his free arm back around her shoulders as she opened Dixie’s umbrella again.

After walking for what felt like half the night, Steve finally guided her into some sort of greasy spoon with a neon sign blinking “Café” off and on in the dirty window.

To her relief and rage, she saw Bear sitting in a plastic booth in the back.

Not liking her back to the door, she claimed a spot next to Bear. Steve took the empty seat, lounging so he had one eye on the door, the other on Bear and Violet.

A dour old woman with a lazy eye wandered over. She asked in some sort of dialect neither Violet nor Steve could decipher what they would have. For the first time in her life, Violet attempted a British accent: “Coffee please.”

It wasn’t terrible, her ear for languages and accents helped, she just made very sure to speak slowly and to enunciate every syllable. She wouldn’t be able to keep it up for a lengthy conversation though.

Steve nodded to indicate he wanted the same and the woman shuffled off. Violet turned to her boss “What the fuck?”

“Where you followed?” Bear asked, ignoring Violet’s vulgarity.

“No,” Steve said. “Did we get everyone?”

“We’re all accounted for now,” Bear said. 

Violet put her hands down on the Formica table top then lifted them up again. It was sticky. The air smelled stale and greasy. She felt sick “What the hell is going on?”

The lazy-eyed waitress returned with the coffee pot and three cups. Violet smiled but said nothing. The waitress slumped back to her spot behind the cash register and started reading some British tabloid rag.

Bear poured coffee, keeping a vigilant eye on the door. “Someone caught wind of our little side project and decided to nip it in the bud.”

“Side project?” Steve said, glancing at Bear, then back at the door. “What side project?”

“There’s a rat,” Bear said simply. “We,” he nodded at Violet ever so slightly “were trying to flush him out. Apparently the rat has friends in very high places because those friends convinced the AD that we are all rats working with a homegrown British terrorist.”

“Do we know who the rat is?” Steve asked.

“No,” Violet said shortly. “Except it’s not us and it’s not Dixie.”

“Or Jack,” Bear said.

Violet, against her will, held her tongue but she gave Steve That Look. That Look he had seen many times on cases when her “spidey sense” tingled. Steve wasn’t a profiler like Violet or Jack, but he knew how to read people and he damn well knew how to read his partner.

“OK, so now what?” Steve said, taking a sip of coffee, making a face and putting the cup down.

“Right now our bank accounts and credit cards are being frozen. Our personal files are being put on lock-down. Interpol is being alerted to apprehend us immediately if we attempt to flee the country and our families will be informed of our imminent demise. I’m guessing there will be an unfortunate plane crash.”

“What happens to us?” Violet asked.

“Well, we were burned instead of arrested, which means this is a major embarrassment for the Bureau and Homeland Security so as long as we keep a low profile, they’ll let us live.”

Steve snorted “So they’ve turned Great Britain into our oubliette.”

“But this gives us a fighting chance to prove we’re innocent,” Violet said. “We just need to find the real rat and-“

“How?” Steve demanded. “No money, no resources?” He ran his hands over face. “We don’t even know where we’re sleeping tonight.”

Bear drained the dregs of his awful coffee and put a few bank notes on the sticky table. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

They followed Bear as he slid out of the booth and walked to the back of the greasy spoon. Violet warily watched the lazy eyed waitress but she was engrossed in her gossip magazine.

They walked through what passed as a kitchen and out the back door. They hurried through alleys that would induce additional nightmares: shadowy and sinister with flickering security lights and overflowing garbage dumpsters. All three of them kept looking over their shoulder. The coffee swirled uncomfortably in Violet’s stomach.

Finally they got to some sort of hostel that definitely seen better days. It was so old it used actual keys instead of key cards. Bear let them through the front door and then past the tiny reception desk and up two flights of stairs, then unlocked another set of doors.

Inside a completely depressing room made up of cots and bunk-beds, the entire team was present. Including Jack, who leaned against the bathroom door and looked exhausted.

Violet made a beeline to Dixie who looked absolutely bewildered “Violet,” her voice tremulous.

Dixie looked more like someone’s frumpy housewife than a respected FBI technology analyst. “I brought your umbrella back,” she said warmly, sitting down next to the frightened woman, patting her back. “Everything is OK, I promise you.

“Like hell it’s OK,” Diesel burst out, getting up from the cot he had been sitting on. “Bear you better start talking.”

“If you have anyone to be angry with,” Jack said quietly, “It’s me.”

Every pair of eyes trained on him.

“Does the name Rouge Dirigé Liguecase mean anything to anyone?” he asked, still quiet.

“It’s a shadow, a boogie-man,” Bill said, also quiet. Along with religions, he was also the go-to-guy for conspiracy theories and cults. “Like the Illuminati and the Free Masons.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s very real. Its origins can be traced as far back as 1891.” He pushed himself off the door and walked in the middle of the dimly lit room. “They have no loyalties, no religion, no family, no motivation other than business. Lately they’ve gone into business with several Middle Eastern terrorist groups, not just al-Qaeda. We have reason to believe the Rouge has made Belfast its current headquarters with London as it’s back-up. We also believe the Rouge was getting information for al-Qaeda from someone within the Bureau, through the VICAP computer systems.”

The room went deathly still. Out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw Dixie open her mouth and Violet quickly grabbed the older woman’s hand and squeezed tightly, thanking God Jack’s was turned to them at that moment. Dixie shut her mouth, but her lower lip trembled.

“The top brass,” Diesel said slowly “thinks one of us is a rat.”

“The top brass,” Jack correct “thinks we are all traitors. This is my fault. I leaned too hard on the Earl of Winchester yesterday. I underestimated him. He called in a few favors. He initially wanted us rounded up and dropped into the biggest hole Guantanamo Bay has to offer. But I still had a few angels left on my side. I called in a few favors of my own-“

“And got us burned,” Diesel shouted advancing on Jack, his fists balled. “I’m all my niece’s got left in this world and you got us fucking burned?”

“Better than dead. Better than being thrown in some federal prison without a trial,” Jack said coolly but he tensed his body, preparing for a fight.

But both Bill and Bear leapt into action. “Stop,” Bear said, putting his arm across Diesel’s chest, pushing him away from Jack.

“This does not help us,” Bill added as he stood between Diesel and Jack.

In a weak voice, Dixie asked “How do we go home?” Her eyes watered “My kids…”

“We go home,” Violet said firmly “when we find the real rat. We find the real rat by digging up as much shit on the Earl as possible and threaten to bury him.”

“Violet’s right,” Steve said. “Blackmailing the Earl is our ticket home. We just need to figure how to get money and resources.”

“I have one angel left,” Jack said “Someone who can get us fake IDs.”

“Passports?” Dixie said hopefully but Violet shook her head.

“Dixie, even if you could get out of the country with a fake passport, they’ll have surveillance on your house. But the fake IDs will help us maneuver through London at the very least. I packed some jewelry. I might be able to pawn it for some quick cash. And my watch,” she looked at the pretty gold wristwatch, her throat tight. Michael had given it to her for her thirtieth birthday.

Michael…

Oh shit… 

He was not going to believe some airplane crash story.

“OK,” Bear said, looking at his own watch. “Jack, you get moving on those fake IDs. I cashed a traveler’s check this morning before the shit hit the fan so I’ve got some funds. Bill, Johnny, you two are on first watch. Everyone else try to get some shut-eye. No phone calls, no emails, no communication. That means you don’t call loved ones, girlfriends, kids, siblings, no one, got it?”

Dixie finally broke down, started weeping. Violet hugged her again.

“It’ll be OK,” Violet lied.

***

10 May 2008
Somewhere in London…
Saturday
6:13 AM

Someone shook her shoulder. Violet immediately drew her gun.

“Jesus, Quick Draw McGraw,” Bear tried to joke, hands in the air.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her weapon. She felt muddled, un-rested. Her teeth felt slimy and her hair was a rat’s nest. “What time is it?”

“A little after six,” he said. “I’m going out to find an open grocery store somewhere. Get some supplies for the next few days.” In a softer voice he said “I need to talk to you alone.”

“Yeah, OK,” I’ll come with,” she said, sitting up, blinking like a sleepy owl.

Dixie was curled up on a cot, a grey blanket thrown over her. Fatigue had finally worn her down and she fell asleep after a fit of quiet sobbing. Exhausted also defeated Jack and Steve, they were asleep on their own cots, flat on their backs. Violet knew their guns were nearby.

Bill and Diesel had found a deck of cards and were half-heartedly playing Texas Hold ‘Em on Bill’s cot, their eyes and ears more in tuned with what was happening outside the doors and windows than what was in their hands.

Bear looked like he hadn’t slept since the shit hit the fan, but it looked like he did at least shower even though he had to put on the same rumpled clothes from yesterday.

“Just let me get cleaned up a little bit,” she grabbed her purse. She had used it last night as a pillow.

Unwilling to shower only to have to put dirty clothes back on, Violet settled for washing her face and hands, brushing her teeth, applying liberal amounts of deodorant and perfume (she has the foresight to keep travel-sized deodorant, perfume and toothpaste in her purse… but because she had just started seeing someone new back home. In DC. Where things made sense.)

She let Dixie sleep, but she discreetly borrowed her sunglasses and jacket.

“Buying food,” Bear said to Diesel and Bill, who nodded tersely.

“We’ll keep them safe,” Diesel promised.

As if to taunt them, it promised to be a clear and sunny morning. Neither Bear nor Violet said anything as they walked. It wasn’t until there was some solid distance between them and the shabby hostel when Bear finally said “Jack tipped me off about the burn. He helped me get everyone out alive. He knew, Violet, the entire time about our side project. He was working with Homeland Security, trying to figure out where the leak was coming from. He couldn’t say anything to us and we couldn’t say anything to him.”

“So they pit us against each other, hoping someone would break and reveal themselves?” Violet scoffed. “That’s stupid.” And I don’t believe it for one second she thought. In her heart of hearts, because of what she saw yesterday, she knew there was no second investigation.

“Your ‘spidey sense’ is tingling,” Bear said as they walked through the seedy streets of this extremely unfashionable part of London, looking for something, a shop, a convenience store, something that sold food. “I can tell. I saw That Look you gave Steve. I need to know what you’re thinking, Violet. Secrets can get us killed right now.”

Violet shook her head “I knew the Earl was influential but I didn’t think he had enough juice to get us all burned by the Bureau. Jack isn’t the only one who underestimated him.”

“Was it Holmes? Do you think he put that call?”

Violet shook her head again “He’s not that powerful… yet. Give him three more years through and he will be The Man Behind the Curtain, running this country.”

“Did you find anything else more about him? His family, friends? His personal life? Anything current we can tie him to the Earl or the Rouge? Anything we can use to get him to help us?”

“No.”

“What do you know about Holmes?” 

Violet shoved her hands in her coat pocket. Her head and back ached. Her calves itched, she was pretty sure the hostel was infested with fleas. “In early 1984, the entire Holmes family relocated to London after a small fire damaged one of the guest rooms in their country estate. They bought a modest house outside the city where the parents still live in today. The parents live very frugally and they don’t have contact with any of their old friends. If you ran into them in the street, you would have no idea how wealthy they really were…

“Mycroft Holmes took over the family estate when he turned thirty and has used it as a retreat when necessary ever since. When Holmes was in college, he had a reputation for being a serial dater. His relationships don’t last more than six months and he hasn’t been in a serious relationship in maybe five years? His “friends” are the people who get Photoshopped out of pictures of the Prime Minister and the Queen.”

“In other words, the people really running this country,” Bear grunted, head down.

Violet nodded, “On the surface, he’s very boring and I’m sure he keeps it that way on purpose. As far as anyone knows, he’s bookish, he’s witty, he plays chess and he’s a member of something called the Diogenes Club? Weird club, you don’t talk… I can’t even pretend to understand what the hell it’s about. I’ve confirmed he hasn’t seen the Earl on a social or business basis since he left high school or whatever they call high schools over here.”

“What about the younger brother?”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Useless. A burn-out. He’s currently doing his third stint in rehab.”  

“Can that be used against Holmes as leverage?”

Another shake of her head followed by a derisive snort “It’s not a secret Little Brother has fucked up again plus there is no love lost between the Holmes boys, so no.”

“Did you see anything you saw at the conference that set off any warning bells for you that Holmes is involved with the Rouge?”

“No,” she said firmly, without shaking her head. “No. He’s an ice-cold bastard and he gets off being the puppet master of the British government. Something like the Rouge would not suit him. It’s too… uncivilized.”

“Who is our rat, Violet?” Bear said, finally getting to the question Violet had been dreading “Diesel or Bill?”

Violet wanted to lie but couldn’t. “Neither.”

“You positive? Jack thinks it’s Diesel, that he’s still bitter all these years after nearly getting killed while undercover. Thinks the Bureau owes him.”

“Diesel is not bitter. He bleeds red, white and blue. Plus Diesel doesn’t have enough computer knowledge to pull off a hack like that. Or know the right people to build a back-door like that. His area of expertise is gangs and drug cartels, not cyber-terrorism. Bill is too logical and precise to ever bow to religious fanaticism. He’s a historian not a jihadist.”

“Then who?” Bear said in a careful voice. “Steve?”

Violet looked to the sidewalk, her head bowed. “Jack,” she finally said, her voice almost inaudible.

“No,” Bear stopped walking, grabbed her arm and whirled her around so she was facing him. “Violet, he saved us-“

“He saved himself,” Violet snapped back. “I just haven’t figured out why he included us yet.”

“Because you’re wrong,” Bear squeezed her arm, pulling her closer to him. “You don’t know Jack; he would never-“

“Neither would Diesel or Bill,” Violet said. “Jack did something … out of character yesterday.” She glanced at his hand grasping her upper arm, then back at Bear’s face. “And you’re hurting me and causing a scene.” Granted the only audience was a worn-out prostitute coming off the night shift and a couple of bums rummaging through the trash cans. Still, couldn’t be too careful.

Bear, looking around, let her go and started walked again “What,” he said tensely.

Violet resisted the urge to rub her arm. She knew there would be a giant bruise there later. “When we took our morning break yesterday, I was people-watching. I noticed both Holmes and the Earl stayed the hell away from each other but when they thought the other wasn’t paying attention, the looks they gave the other was of utter loathing. These two men are not friends.”

Her mouth felt very dry. She hoped they found something soon, a convenience store, a crummy greasy spoon, something where she could get some coffee to drink and something sugary and full of carbs to eat. “I got a text, nothing critical, just a tip on a cold case that’s more of a hobby than a real case. I sent a reply and looked up from my Blackberry. I saw Jack talking to the Earl. He shook the Earl’s hand and said ‘Heath, it’s been a pleasure working with you.’ and he clapped him on the upper arm like they were buddies.”

“That’s it?” Bear said when he realized Violet had nothing more to add. “That’s your evidence.”

“No,” she said. “That was the blip on my radar that something was wrong. The reason why I didn’t tell you is because I have no evidence.”

“Why would that be a blip on your radar?”

“In a formal setting, you don’t address English nobility in a familiar fashion. He should have called him ‘Lord Cullen-Culpepper’ and he should have NOT touched him. Jack would know that, he would have done his homework before coming to this conference.”

“It was during a break.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“He did say he pressed the Earl too hard…”

Violet shook her head, suddenly wanting to weep. “It was a warning,” she said. “Jack was tipping the Earl off we were on to him.”

“No,” Bear said again but he didn’t grab her again.

“You asked,” Violet said shortly. “Now it’s my turn to ask some questions,” she hated how her voice quavered but emotion and exhausted started to catch up to her. “Did you have any idea something like this could happen?” When Bear didn’t immediately answer she said “I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth before I figure it out myself.”

“I thought,” Bear said finally. “If there was any blow-back, it would be on me. If I had any idea this could have happened, I would have never… Dixie has three kids for God’s sake.”

“Dixie is going to get us killed,” Violet said through clenched teeth. “She’s a tech, not a field agent. She’s never done undercover. She’s going to crack. We’ve got to get her out of the country. Get her to at least Canada or something.”

“Jack is working on tha-“

“No!” Violet interrupted. “Not Jack! Us!”

“Violet, a five second glance at a social faux pas isn’t enough to convince me Jack’s the rat. Listen,” they stopped across the street from a very rundown grocery store that’s definitely down on its luck. “He saved us. That is a fact. If he was a rat, why didn’t he run?”

“I said I haven’t figured that part out yet,” Violet muttered. “And Dixie’s not the only one with loved ones back home. Diesel’s putting his niece through college after his sister OD’d last summer, who’s going to take care of that girl? Bill’s parents are both in a nursing home, who’s going to take care of them?  Steve has a new b- significant other,” Violet cursed herself for almost outing her partner’s sexual orientation, but Bear didn’t seem to notice. “And Michael… Bear, Michael is not going to believe any bullshit story the Bureau tells him.”

“You can NOT contact him,” Bear said sternly as he checked out the area, ever vigilant, making sure they were not followed or being listened in on. “Do you understand?”

“Someone needs to get a message to him not to dig,” Violet hissed “Because he will.”

“Because you gave him confidential information on an on-going case,” Bear reminded her.

“Because you fucking lied to me how dangerous this was,” Violet squared her shoulders. The desire to weep had receded. “You knew there was a slim chance this could blow back on all of us. I thought my work regarding the Rouge was pure research until a month ago. You deliberately mislead me so I would keep working on this instead of worrying about the risk.”

Bear’s shoulders slumped, his face fell. “I’m so sorry Violet,” his eyes suddenly became wet. The anger melted away from her as his big Minnesotan accented voice broke “I’ll make this right, Vi, I swear. I’ll get you home.”

“OK,” she took his hand as if she was a little girl needing her daddy to help her cross the street. “OK. But please, don’t trust Jack completely, no listen,” she squeezed his hand. “Just be careful. At least, when we separate, put Dixie with Bill. Please?”

He squeezed her hand back and together, they crossed the street to see what the sad, dingy grocery store could offer.

***

14 March 2015
The Hurricane Room
Saturday Evening
11:40 PM

Sherlock, bored with sitting still, had interrupted Bear halfway through his story to suggest a game of billiards. Bear agreed. The raucous drunken laughter and the clacking of billiard balls hitting each other though out the club would cover the sound of their own conversation.

Violet declined to play, instead choosing to act the role of “Bored Girlfriend”, when in actuality she kept a sharp look-out for anyone suspicious.

Bear, as it turned out, could play very well. Sherlock, of course, was better.

“So,” Bear said, lining up a shot. “Jack came through a few days later with fake IDs, money and even jobs. Only Violet and Steve had enough sense not to go along with the plan. Jack had used the fake IDs, to keep tabs on all of us. He took out the weakest link first.”

“The computer analyst,” Sherlock said, watching Bear miss an easy shot “Dixie.”

“Well, she was known as “Mrs. Dixon” by then, but yeah. Six months later, she killed herself.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Bear smiled wearily as now he watched Sherlock line up a shot. “No, she didn’t. He did a good job making it look like it though. After Dixie was Diesel. He got in touch with us, while we were setting up my brokerage firm,” he laughed bitterly as he fiddled with his pool stick. “I helped create that firm to generate an income. So we could continue our investigation into the Earl and the Rouge, to clear our names. You see, Violet and Steve ran off on their own a few days after Violet gave me your family history, instead of sticking with the plan Jack created. I hate to admit it, but I thought maybe they were the guilty ones since they ran… but then Diesel found me in mid-2009. Told me he could prove Dixie’s death was murder, not suicide and Jack was the one who did it. Told me he had evidence Jack set us all up all along but he needed to get out of the country. He didn’t even make it out of Birmingham,” his voice was heavy with regret.

“Did he give you the evidence of Mr. Woodley’s deceit?” Sherlock asked, looking quite smug as he executed a complicate shot easily.

“No,” Bear said. “He gave it to Violet.”

“Did he now?” Sherlock said, looking over his shoulder at the woman in the puffy pink coat pretending to drink some fizzy pink cocktail. He let his eyes drop to the black messenger bag she insisted on dragging everywhere, even before it was loaded up with the money and weapons she took from her secret office. “Did he now…” he said, more to himself, remembering the laptop and the external hard drive she also put in there.

Bag has got to weigh a stone by now at least.

“Yeah, he did,” Bear said as Sherlock returned his attention back to the billiard table. “Diesel never trusted Jack,” he added as Sherlock walked around the table, observing the balls’ position. “He forced me to open my eyes. I didn’t want to believe my best friend was capable of doing what he did… I started my own investigation. By the time Violet and Steve came back to London after Diesel’s death, I couldn’t ignore the truth anymore. Jack was our bad guy. We made a plan. It was a good plan, it was a solid plan. When we figured out Jack was using the firm as a money laundering front, we allowed it to continue.”

“Follow the money trail. Gather the evidence, building the case. What went wrong?” Sherlock asked, putting chalk on the pool stick, having decided on what shot to take.

“What went wrong was that we had no idea,” Bear said slowly “we were working with Jim Moriarty until he was in the news for trying to steal the Crown Jewels.”

Sherlock suddenly felt Violet’s eyes on him but he expertly hid his discomfiture at Bear’s revelation “He did have a talent for complicating the best laid plans,” Sherlock said smoothly as he bent over, preparing to make another complicated shot. “Naturally you couldn’t extradite yourself from his webs by that point, could you?”

“No. And we still can’t. And Moriarty’s dead,” Bear said then hesitated. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

“Of course he’s dead,” Sherlock said, straightening up. “I witnessed him put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. If he faked that, he’s a better illusionist than I am.”

“What about that broadcast over New Year’s?” Violet spoke for the first time the billiards game began. “’Did you miss me?’ That added more fuel to the rumors that he’s not really dead. That the man who was with you on the roof of St. Bart’s really wasn’t Moriarty.”

“Of course he was,” Sherlock insisted “He is dead. The Met confirmed it. So did MI-6.”

Bear relaxed slightly but by how she narrowed her eyes at him, Sherlock knew exactly what she was thinking even if she had spoken out loud

Liar.  

“He is dead, Violet” Sherlock said harshly. “Someone is using Moriarty’s name and reputation to terrorize England. Now then, where did Mr. Woodley go after Moriarty clearly and obviously committed suicide? Please only provide facts as rumor and hearsay is useless.”

He purposely missed the next shot, an easy one. He didn’t want to play anymore.

Did you miss me?

“Jack disappeared after Moriarty was declared dead,” Bear said. “We…” he gave Violet a sidelong glance “I thought we were safe. I let the money laundering continue, to continue following the money trail, to collect evidence. Violet was still working on connecting the Earl to the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase. It was the only way we could prove our innocence as well as track Jack down. Go big or go home… or not go home, in our case.”

“We weren’t fast enough,” Violet stirred her unappealing cocktail.  “Jack got to us first.”

“How?” Sherlock turned around to face her.  

Bear stood next to Sherlock and acted like he was trying to figure his next shot. His heart wasn’t in the game anymore either. “Jack threatened both of us. Threatened to harm the people that worked for us. Informed us Bill was dead. Bill had been living quietly all these years, posing as an Anglican priest. Jack then told us in no uncertain terms the money laundering would continue and we better get used to living in England permanently or we were going to stop living.”

“You told him no,” Sherlock said, taken aback at this man’s arrogance. “He clearly outwitted you time and time again and just simple common sense would have dictated to lie and comply to buy time to outwit him. As I stated earlier this evening, nobility is synonymous with stupidity.”  

“I told him,” Bear said steadily “We could not continue the money laundering on a long-term basis, especially with the new clients he brought on board. I told him we needed an exit strategy, that if we continued what we were doing, we were going to attract the wrong kinds of attention. I also told him Violet and I could not continue to live the way we have been the past seven years and we needed to go back to the US. We needed our citizenship restored and our records with the Bureau cleared. I told him we’d cooperate if he gave up the Earl to us so we could go home.”

“You honestly believed,” Sherlock wanted to beat this man’s empty head with his pool stick “He would help you with that?”

 “I need a cigarette,” Bear said abruptly. “Join me.”

“I don’t smoke,” Sherlock said loftily.

“Liar,” Violet said. “I could smell it in your hair last night in the cab.”

“I don’t have any on me,” Sherlock grizzled.

“I do, come on.” Bear beckoned towards the door.

When Sherlock gave Violet a confused look that bordered on concern but mostly contained annoyance, she said “I’ll be fine here.” She pulled her new Smartphone out of her coat pocket again and held it up to him “Any time, day or night, a text will bring you to my side, right?”

Sherlock nodded and walked off, towards the door. Bewildered, Bear looked at Violet for help. She tilted her head towards Sherlock’s direction and gave her boss a look that said Better go get him then started investigating all what her new mobile could do.

Bear trotted after Sherlock and soon they were outside on the pavement, each enjoying a cigarette. “Did you mean what you said?” Bear asked, sounding desperate “About the whole one text brings you to her side thing?”

“Why?” Sherlock exhaled smoke through his nose.

“Will you protect her?” Bear said urgently.

“If I have all the facts, which no one is providing right now.”

“Violet has the access codes to all the offshore accounts we dump money in.”

“Ah,” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Ahhh, the cigarette… of course. You lured me outside so she could complete what she couldn’t in the office. You are the mule who gets the cheques and deposits the money into the offshore accounts, at least from the London PO Boxes. You gave Violet the PINs to all the off-shore accounts you have access to and as we speak she’s changing all the PINs so no withdrawals can be made, isn’t she?”

“It was the protocol we put in place if we got made,” Bear said. “Freeze the accounts. Then crash our work system, delete all data that incriminates us. Buy some time. The bad guys aren’t likely to blow our heads off when they realize we’re the only ones with the PIN numbers.”

“Saying ‘PIN number’ is redundant and it isn’t ‘we’ who has the PINs, it’s her. Now.”

Bear nodded.

“But they’ll think it’s you.”

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s a terrible plan. All of your plans have been terrible. You should have leaned on my brother when he was younger and less powerful than he is now. Seven years ago, he would have caved like a soufflé at the slightest hint of scandal but now, impossible.” Sherlock brought the cigarette back to his lips and inhaled. Deeply.

Dear God, this man was thick.

Americans.

“Our plans,” Bear dropped his butt to the pavement and ground it out with the heel of his shoe “Were not stupid. We… I trusted the wrong person.”

“Even after all this time,” Sherlock kept his eyes closed, feeling a headache building in his temples. It’s happened, it’s finally happened. Someone’s short-sighted idiocy is causing me true physical pain. “Even after all the evidence presented to you, even after he started instigating the bombings, you actually believed this man, was your friend? Was trying to protect you?”

“Who’s your best friend? I sure as hell know it’s not your brother,” Bear snapped.”It’s that doctor-blogger that tags along with you. Imagine someone walking up to you and telling you everything you knew about him was a lie, that he had been using you the whole time and planned on killing you when he was done. Would you believe something like that?”

Sherlock took a final drag on his cigarette, feeling the smoke circulating inside his chest before releasing it out his mouth and nose. “No,” he said cruelly, “Because I know John, I observe John, his actions, his words, especially everything he had done for me during my Great Hiatus and my Rise, not to mention how he tried to save me from The Fall itself. John would never betray me as this Jack Woodley has betrayed you, time and time again. John has never done one single thing that contradicts what I believe is his true character whereas this Jack Woodley has provided ample examples that he is not who he says he is. You have been this man’s puppet from Day One, Mr. “Carruthers” and your blind loyalty has gotten people killed.”

“I know-“ Bear started but got steamrolled by the Great Detective.

“As you told me your story, I noted many warning signs that should have alerted you your “friend” was setting you up, the first and foremost this international conference regarding international kidnappings? Please. Should have been your first clue something was not right. Why was your team that was sent? Why not a team of agents who dealt specifically with child abduction? That particular element seemed to be missing from your team, but you never questioned it. Oh no you were too eager to ‘cowboy up’ (as you Americans put it) to go get the bad guys. Also, why did he insist on including Agent Curack instead of that Agent Cooper you originally had on your list? Convenient for him to suggest a man you already suspected of being a traitor, don’t you think? No, of course you don’t think, that’s why you’re in this predicament.”

Sherlock held out his hand. Bear stared at him, slightly dazed. He naturally was fully aware of Sherlock’s famed deductions but never dreamed of being on the receiving end of one. “What?”

Sherlock huffed an impatient breath “The cigarettes.”

“Oh,” Bear said, digging in his pockets and pulling out the packet as well as the lighter. Sherlock snatched both out of his hand greedily. He lit up, put both the lighter and cigarettes in his coat pocket and puffed away as he continued on his diatribe:

“Why exactly your good friend Jack Woodley specifically wanted those people sent to London is still a mystery, except for the belated Agent Dixie Sweeney aka “Mrs. Dixon”. Of course he wanted her along, so he could kill her at his leisure since she was the one who discovered how he used the VICAP database to hack into the Pentagon. So she had to go. Why he needed the other agents I have yet to deduct those reasons, but he did want those agents specifically to be sent to London… except for Agent Hunter. You said he hesitated when he read her name. That was another giant red flag waving, no hitting you in your face and yet you dismissed as unimportant. Why did Jack Woodley hesitate? Why did he not want Agent Hunter along? Simple, unlike you, she’s observant and self-sufficient. She’s a threat, she saw through him and the Earl and it’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

“Which goes back to my original question,” Bear took a step closer to Sherlock. “Will you protect her? It’s my fault her life has been destroyed in the first place but,” he licked his lips and shook his head.”I can’t help her anymore.”

“Who am I protecting her from?” Sherlock asked. “The  Rouge Dirigé Liguecase or my brother?”

“Both,” Bear said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m a consulting detective, Mr. “Carruthers”, not a bodyguard.”

“You brought Jim Moriarty down, you can bring Jack Woodley down too,” Bear said. “I thought your connection to your brother was too dangerous. That’s why I wanted to throw you off the scent. Now, your connection to your brother might be the only thing that can get Violet home.”

Dear God, this man was painfully easy to read. But his earnestness and loyalty could be mistaken for leadership qualities. Sherlock could see why soldiers and government agents would rally to his battle cries. “You believe if Jack Woodley is brought to justice, my brother will pull strings and have Violet’s American citizenship restored.”

“No,” Bear said. “I believe your doctor-blogger will kill Jack Woodley, you will kill the Earl and your brother will cover those deaths up. Then Violet will be finally free from the Rouge.”

Surprise was an unfamiliar emotion to Sherlock. He blinked and nearly dropped his cig. Maybe this man wasn’t that dim after all. “Agent Hunter had stopped investigating my brother a very long time ago, didn’t she?”

Bear nodded.

Surprise led to a feeling something close to panic, but not quite. “How much does has she learned about John and I and what methods did she use?”

Bear smiled “John was easy, he’s an open book, or blog rather.”

Sherlock sighed. That damnable blog. He really needed to insist on reviewing John’s entries before he posted.

“What about me,” he pressed his hand to his chest. “What does she know about me?”

The monsters scratched at the dungeon doors of his mind palace Can we come out to play…? they whispered and cackled as they flexed their talons and sharpened their teeth…

Bear still smiled “Mr. Holmes, she probably knows you better than you know yourself.” He gave him a small wave, more like a salute. “Tell Violet I said goodbye.”

Sherlock felt a pile of bricks slam into his chest when he realized what Bear now intended to do. “It won’t work,” he said. “Just like your other plans, it will fail spectacularly.”

“I wasn’t planning on succeeding,” Bear said lightly.

“You’ll break her heart,” Sherlock appealed to Bear’s emotions. Sometimes that actually worked on people, even though it rarely worked on him.

“No,” Bear reached into his coat pocket and discreetly gave him the bank bag Violet insisted on giving him earlier that night. “You will. You already have, to be honest.”

“I-“ Sherlock felt his mouth fall open as he automatically hid the bank bag inside his coat.

“Dr. Watson wasn’t the only one who tried saving you from The Fall,” Bear said before he walked away. “Or worked to clear your name during your Hiatus.”

Confused, Sherlock stared as Bear blended into the crowd of drunks and club-hoppers.

Then he disappeared.

 

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Three Cigarette Problem

15 March 2015
The Hurricane Room
Sunday morning
Five past midnight

It was a three cigarette problem.

Sherlock smoked halfway through the third cigarette when he finally said “Oh…” and closed his eyes. “Stupid,” he chastised himself, “Stupid, stupid, stupid… that’s how he did it, of course.”

That’s how Moriarty got all his information on me. That’s why Violet broke into my flat those three times. She spied on me for Moriarty….It wasn’t completely Mycroft’s fault after all… not that I’m going to tell him that.

He finished his cigarette, flicked the butt into the street and pulled out his new mobile. He pulled up Violet’s contact name and sent her a message “Meet me out front – SH”

Moments later, hefting that heavy bag onto her shoulder, Violet came out. Looking around, she asked “Where’s Bear?”

“Did you get the PINs on the offshore accounts changed?” Sherlock asked sweetly.

Violet looked at him right in the eyes. “That would be suicide.”

“Thought that was the protocol your boss put into place? “

“That was a stupid protocol,” Violet replied.

“What did you do instead?”

“Creative accounting,” she said.  “By Monday, all that money in all those accounts will be wire-transferred to one account in the Cayman Islands.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

Violet shrugged “All together, anywhere from thirty to fifty million pounds. I told you, we weren’t dealing with small-time hoods.”

Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his lips. “Who is the owner of the lucky receiving account?”

“Jack Woodley,” she said serenely.

“Did you create this account for Mr. Woodley?”

Violet shook her head. “This was set up long before we even set foot in London. This is his actual and real personal account.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock couldn’t help himself. It really was brilliant.

And a bit scary to be honest, her absolute ruthlessness when her back was to the wall.

Which Violet acknowledged by saying calmly “Once they realize what happened, he’s dead. Every single gangster and drug cartel leader we’ve been dealing will hunt him down.”

“What if the gangsters and drug cartels figure out you have the ability to move the money?”

Violet widened her eyes, looked terrified “He threatened me, he had a gun to my head, I would never, I didn’t want to… but I can get the money wired back to you if you want me to… I can do it right now, just please don’t hurt me…” her voice shook convincingly.

“Oh you’re good.”

“I know,” Violet said, reverting back to her normal voice. “But where is Bear?”

Sherlock hoped there would not be a sloppy or maudlin scene.  He didn’t know what he would do if she suddenly started to weep. “He told me to tell you good-bye,” he said flatly.

She didn’t weep, thank God. Just closed her eyes and whispered “God damn it.” However, when she opened her eyes again, they were quite dry. When Sherlock opened his mouth she cut across him coldly “Don’t you dare say one bad thing about him right now, so help me God.”

It seemed prudent to hold his tongue at this point. Carefully, he said “Let’s go back to Baker Street,” and raised his hand to hail a taxi.

“We’ll have to stop at a grocery store or somewhere to get dog food,” she said wearily. “Stone can’t keep eating people food.” Before they had left for the day’s excursions to Scotland Yard and her office, Violet reluctantly gave her dog the leftover sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had left for them “in case they felt peckish later”. She also had found a giant metal bowl and filled it with water… after she washed out a slimy brown residue on the bottom that she did NOT want to know what it was.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as a cab slowed down. “There’s a twenty-four supermarket near my flat. We’ll stop there,” he said waspishly because he hated any type of domestic chore, from the washing up to food shopping. A dull way to end a fairly exciting day, but as it was, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. Not until Jack Woodley made some sort of misstep in his panic when he realized every variation of the modern day villain had put a price on his head. Only when Mr. Woodley was either apprehended by a law enforcement agency or was executed by a criminal enterprise, could Sherlock then relax a bit regarding Violet’s safety.

His brother on the other hand… Mycroft was still convinced Violet had secret information on an international level, something that could be a considered a threat. Surely it wasn’t the PINs to those criminals’ bank accounts, was it? Of course not, that was just dirty money. No concern or use to Mycroft or the Crown. It had to be more than that, surely there was some sort of clue that hasn’t presented itself to him yet that would clarify his brother’s interest in her…

I believe your doctor-blogger will kill Jack Woodley, you will kill the Earl and your brother will cover those deaths up. Then Violet will be finally free from the Rouge…

What could Violet know that would convince Mycroft to cover up more murders?

Why did Bear believe John was capable of murder? Because he is, he killed that cab driver before I took the pill… which I know I picked the right pill… irritating I could never prove it…

Rather unnerving however that he assumed I would be the one to kill the Earl…  he wrapped his arms tighter around himself as Violet sat next to him, watching the city zip past as the cab drove on. What did Bear say? ‘Mr. Holmes, she probably knows you better than you know yourself.’

That could prove to be problematic…

These thoughts tumbled through Sherlock’s head as the cab cut through the vile London traffic back towards their quieter neighborhood and let them out at the supermarket near his flat.

He jammed his hands in his coat pockets and groused and grumbled as he followed Violet around underneath the bright fluorescent lights of the store. Violet apparently decided to not only get dog food, but also milk, cheese, a loaf of bread, Nutella, cereal, coffee, some vegetables and dressings for salads and fresh fruit.

“Just because you choose to starve yourself while working, doesn’t mean I intend to,” Violet said as she examined an apple for bruises.

“Oh just get on with it, I have things to do,” Sherlock said, a hint of a whine in his voice. 

“Like what?” Violet said, rejecting the apple in favor of a better specimen. “Polish your cheekbones before bed?”

Sherlock immediately decided practicing the violin at approximately four o’clock in the morning would be an excellent idea.

After they finished checking out, Violet glared at Sherlock until he got the hint (“I don’t have my handbag with me darling…”) Nostrils flaring, muttering general complaints about women under his breath, he grudgingly took out his bank card to pay and started walking towards the door. When he turned to see what was keeping her, he saw that she looked at him as if he was some new species of mountain troll.

“Are you seriously going to make me carry all these groceries? Chivalry is dead.”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock said crossly, coming back to her. He lifted the heavy messenger bag off her shoulder and looped it around his own. “Honestly,” he said crossly as he flipped her hood over her head again. “I’m only carrying it from here to Baker Street. What I am going to do? Run off with it? Tip it upside down here and now and see what falls out?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Violet said through clenched teeth as she looped the grocery sacks over one arm and tried to scoop up the bag of dog food with the other. 

“Only because I know there is expensive computer equipment and fire arms in here,” Sherlock hissed in her ear. “Now can we please go?” He took the dog food bag out of her arms.

“God, yes,” Violet groaned, making a mental note to never ever go shopping with Sherlock again. She’d rather run errands with a rabid howler monkey than him, the way he had moaned and complained, taken things off the shelf and then put them back in the wrong place while reciting all the research he had read about the damage preservatives can to do to the human body.  Which she thought was rich, coming from a man who literally lived off of sugar, grease, sodium and caffeine… when he chose to eat, that is.

Violet was worn out from the day’s excitement plus was privately mourning Bear’s decision. Sherlock was annoyed with his boring brush with domesticity. Naturally, on their walk back to the flat their irritation caused them to start taking digs at each other:

“…furthermore you will not raid my wardrobe just because yours is currently deficient. I expect that shirt to be properly laundered. I do not want it smelling like flowers and lady’s deodorant.”

“That’s a hell of a lot better smell than formaldehyde and cigarettes. You reek of tobacco right now. What did you do, smoke the entire pack at once?”

“It was a three-cigarette problem!”

“Three? THERE? Three cigarettes my ass. You smoked way more than three.” 

So consumed they were by their bickering, they almost didn’t notice they had arrived at the flat. And they were completely unprepared for bright lights that blinded them. And again. And again.

Violet almost said “What the hell?” in her real accent, but caught herself just in time. She pulled the hood down over her face even more, nearly dropping the groceries as the paparazzo continued to snap pictures.  

“So you’re the new bird,” an unfamiliar female voice said when the camera finally stopped flashing “Flitting around the Great Consulting Detective.”

“Good evening, Miss Riley,” Sherlock’s voice stayed dangerously calm. His mercurial eyes flicked up from the disgraced journalist’s face, down to her boots and up to her face again in less than two seconds. “Judging by your chapped lips, your ruddy cheeks, your disgusting runny nose and the way you keep shifting your body weight from your right foot to your left foot in an attempt to keep your feet warm, I deduct you have been out here perhaps three hours? And for God’s sake, wipe your nose.” Sherlock wrinkled his own nose in disgust. “But judging from the Styrofoam coffee cup, yes, that one, down there, with Speedy’s logo and a lip print in the shape of your mouth in the shade of that unattractive lip color you wear, the one that’s on the pavement instead of the bin because you were too lazy to put it back in the bin properly after you had missed, it is obvious you spent most of the day at the café. Until the aforementioned three hours ago because you know when I’m working I usually come home late evenings, early morning which concludes my suspicions you have been stalking my home when one of the conditions of the court case was you were to maintain your distance from my residence.”

Dear God, how does he do that? Violet couldn’t help wondering. He saw all of that… while we were arguing and being blinded by the camera flash. Jesus God Almighty… he really misses nothing… that could be a problem…

Kitty Riley sniffed. Violet desperately wanted to hand her a tissue. “What are you working on?” Riley asked pertly, clutching her very expensive digital camera. “Where’s Dr. Watson?”

“Home. Where you should go,” Sherlock said, his words becoming crisper and colder. He felt the familiar unwelcoming stinging and burning on his neck and willed himself to ignore it. Mind over matter he instructed himself sternly as he clutched the bag of dog food tighter, wishing he could just throw it at her sneering face. “Whatever act of revenge you are plotting will not succeed. I am cleverer than you, I am quicker than you and I am stronger-willed than you.  I have defeated far worthier adversaries than you, including Jim Moriarty. The sooner you can admit to yourself he used you for his own foul, twisted purposes, the better it will be for all of us.”

“There is no plan for revenge,” Riley said petulantly.

Violet and Sherlock exchanged looks and knew the other was thinking the same thing: Liar.

“I just wanted the scoop. The Internet exploded yesterday when those pictures of you and her appeared on Twitter and Instagram.  Tumblr and Pinterest crashed, actually.”

“Oh God,” Violet muttered.

“Look, I am really… well, I just want one picture, OK? One picture of your bird and I will go quietly. I will not bother you ever again, I promise. I am drowning in debt. I cannot make ends meet, even with working two jobs. I had to move back with my parents, which was utterly humiliating. I understand I made a dreadful mistake but I do not think I deserve ongoing punishment. All the pictures online right now are dreadful, we cannot even see your face, we can just make out that’s you’re a ginger. If I can sell one good picture of you,” Riley appealed directly to Violet now as Sherlock made a disgusted sound and rolled his eyes. “And I will at least be able afford to get a flat of my own again.” She gave Violet a beseeching look. “Please?”

“It’s only one picture,” Violet said, in her “Miss Smith” voice, carefully putting the plastic sacks of food by the door. “If that’s all it will take to have her leave you alone,” she straightened up, “But you will delete the awful snaps you took of us walking here, won’t you? I have a feeling they are quite unflattering.”

“Oh I will!” Relief flooded Riley’s chilblained face. “I’ll even let you review the pictures and delete the ones you don’t like.” 

“Can I look now?” Violet asked.

“Yes, yes, absolutely!” Riley said, delighted.

Stupid woman Sherlock thought, amused, since naturally he deducted Violet’s true intentions.

Violet walked over to Riley as she held out her camera so Violet could look at the display screen. Violet pushed her hood down off her head then without warning knocked the camera out of Riley’s hands. It crashed to the pavement with a loud crunch.

“Hey!” Riley yelped but Violet had already kicked the camera into the street like a football player. There was the very satisfying sound of breaking plastic and glass.

Sherlock put the bag of dog food down and hurried to the street. Riley was about to go after her camera, but Violet had put a restraining hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t,” she said coolly.

Sherlock picked up the cracked camera and fiddled around with it until he found the memory card. He dropped it on the pavement and ground it into dust with the heel of his expensive Italian shoe. “That was foolish,” he gravely informed Riley “But I did warn you.”

“You are going to pay for that,” Riley snapped.

“No, you are,” Violet said, digging into Riley’s coat pocket with the speed of a pickpocket, retrieving her mobile. “Of course you were recording this too,” Violet sighed, hitting the Stop button then flipping the mobile over to take its memory card. Soon that was dust as well.

Riley made a move, telegraphing her intent very clearly but Violet held her hand up, pointing her finger right in Riley’s face. “Don’t,” she said again, cold instead of cool now. “He can’t hit a woman but I can. And will, if necessary. Don’t. Test. Me,” she said when she saw Riley still balled her fists. “He may be cleverer, quicker and stronger-willed than both of us, but I’m definitely more cold-hearted than he is,” her thumbs flew over the screen of the poor girl’s Smartphone until: “Here,” she tossed it back to Riley. “I put it back to factory settings. Pity all your pictures, contacts and apps are gone. I might have mucked up the Language setting though. Sorry,” she said as she picked up the shopping bags again.

Sherlock dug the keys out of his coat pocket and picked up the dog food. “Oh Miss Riley,” he said “Did you truly think I’d be involved with someone pedestrian and predictable like you?”

“You’re right, I should have known you’d only hook up with another pyschopa- you changed the language on my phone to Russian?” she squawked.

“Dosvidan'ya” Violet said sweetly as Sherlock unlocked the door with his free hand and held the door open so she could go inside first.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock decided this morning would not be the morning to practice a new song after all.

Still, as usual, his mind whirred and spun, turning over all the new and interesting information he collected today. Most illuminating day indeed. The puzzle was indeed turning into a picture now, he could almost see it, but there were several important pieces missing.

Wanting to be left alone, he gave Violet her precious messenger bag back to her and strode into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him without so much as a “Good night”.

He flung off the black pea-coat (hoping again that Mrs. Hudson’s dry-cleaners could produce a second miracle and save the Belstaff) and his suit jacket. He kicked off his shoes and undid the top buttons of his slim-cut dress shirt as he headed into his small private bathroom. He found the salve John gave him for the hives and slathered it on thickly, closing his eyes in relief. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, shrugged it off and reached for his favorite T-shirt he used for sleeping, not even bothering to put it on right-side out.  He walked back into the bedroom, taking his new mobile out of his trouser pocket, turned the ringer on and put it on his nightstand. He shucked off his trousers and socks then unceremoniously, he flopped into bed, stretched out flat on his back and closed his eyes; hands pressed together, fingertips to chin.

He could hear Violet puttering around, putting the food away, uttering a muffled exclamation (“What the hell…?”) when she found one of his experiments in the refrigerator and then she called out “I’m taking the dog out for a second.”

“Take your mobile and your gun,” he drawled. “My ringer is on should you need me.”

He heard her talking to the dog in German and then the front door open and close.

He sprung from his bed like a jack in the box and made a beeline to the messenger bag.

The bag was in John’s chair. Lying on top of the bag folded in a very precise manner was the hideous jumper with the kittens-in-a-basket screenprinted on the front. On top of the jumper was a note: Don’t even think about it – V.

He smirked; the challenge was almost irresistible… except he didn’t want to be caught out in the lounge in only his shirt and pants. He knew Violet would be less tolerant than John when it came to what was and wasn’t proper dress.

He doubted Violet would have giggled if she had been brought to Buckingham Palace and he had been waiting for her wearing only a sheet. 

A strange ache throbbed in the middle of his chest just then. An emotion attempting to break through or break out, he wasn’t sure. Still, the feeling sat there, a heavy hurt sitting in the middle of his chest, refusing to get up and go away and he didn’t like it.

I miss John.

Pathetic really.

He just saw him yesterday morning.

Absolutely pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic to miss the one person in the world who accepted him exactly as he was. Needing that one person, who believed in him when no one else did, to be in the same flat with him. To hear the familiar noises of his evening routine: the clatter of the kettle and mug for one last cuppa before bed, the clicking of the computer keyboard as he updated the blog or caught up on charting for the surgery. The creak of the floorboards and stairs as he called out “G’night Sherlock,” as he disappeared into his bedroom for the evening. The creak of the floorboards and stairs as John came back downstairs and the television coming at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep, when the nightmares of Afghanistan plagued him.

He wished he would hear the creak of his bedroom door opening and John’s voice asking him softly, gently “Sherlock, you okay?” waking him, freeing him from the grip of a Fall-induced nightmare. John at least had Mary again to help him cope with the sleepless nights. Sherlock had to suffer his own nightmare alone now.

Please no dreams tonight… the wretched hives were bad enough…

He forced himself to turn around and go back into his bedroom before Violet came back in. Again he collapsed into bed, this time because of the weight in his heart instead of what weighed on his mind.

He closed his eyes, but this time, folded his hands on top of his chest. He looked like a marble effigy on top of one of the old tombs in Westminster Cathedral.  He didn’t move when he heard Violet and Gladstone come back in. He heard her lock the door and tell the dog to lie down in German. Then she turned the television on, keeping the volume low enough not to disturb him presumably but just loud enough to cover up the sounds of her sobbing… or so she thought, because it wasn’t. He knew she reached the point of exhaustion and sorrow where she couldn’t sleep but also deduced she did not want company right now; just he did not want company.

She was grieving for her mentor. He was missing his friend.

**

Robert “Bear” Carson, aka Mr. Carruthers returned to his firm, the little kingdom he had created. He came alone, unarmed.

But he carried a bottle of very good scotch and had cigars in his coat pocket.

He didn’t bother to turn on the lights as he walked though, the street light and the moonlight streamed from the windows. He had enough light to see where he was going and that the office had been ransacked. Papers were everywhere. Chairs were tipped open and desk drawers hung open. Broken coffee mugs and picture frames crunched underneath his feet.

He could see the light in from his office as he made his way through the shadowy workplace.

He walked past Violet’s desk, averting his eyes, not wanting to see the mess they made of it. She would have hated how they tore everything apart, especially her desk.

He leaned against the doorframe. “Wanted to see me, Fox?”

Jack Woodley sat at Bear’s desk. A gun with a silencer lay next to two crystal tumblers.

“Have a seat, Bear,” Jack smiled sadly at his friend.

Bear showed Jack the bottle and put it on the desk. “I’m reaching into my coat for cigars.”

Jack actually had tears in his eyes. “I can tell you’re unarmed, Bear.”

Bear produced the cigars. He gave one to Jack and put the other one in his mouth.

Jack took out a lighter, a very nice Zippo, and ignited it. Bear leaned over the desk and puffed until the cigar was lit. Jack lit his own and gestured towards the bottle and tumblers. Bear saw that Jack had leather gloves on.

Bear played bartender and soon both men were sipping scotch and smoking cigars in a companionable silence.

“I wasn’t supposed to like you,” Jack finally said, grief in his voice. “But dammit, I did. I do.”

Bear smiled grimly “And I’m supposed to spot guys like you. You’re good.”

“Taught by the best,” Jack said, a touch of pride in his voice. He took another sip of scotch. “Did you change the PINs, Bear?”

“You know I did,” Bear said, puffing on his cigar.

“That was a bad play, boss.”

Bear shrugged. “Only play I had left.”

“The king sacrifices himself to save the queen, is that it?”

“Something like that,” Bear said. “Jack… Violet…”

“Is currently untouchable, I know. Getting the Holmes brothers involved. Now that was a good move. It won’t last. If the Virgin doesn’t get bored with her, the Ice Man will chew her up and spit her out once he gets what he wants from her.” Jack puffed from his cigar. “For the record, those were rank amateurs who tried to kidnap her and blow up her building the other night. Nobody expected the Virgin and his pet to show up. He was only supposed to know the building blew up and the street burned down, not actually show up for it.  They would have gotten better guys for the job, if they would have known the Baker Street Boys would show up,” he shrugged. “But times are hard on everyone. Sometimes even the Rouge has to outsource.” 

“What about the people who work here? Are their homes and cars going to be bombed as well?”

“The Rouge doesn’t care about them. We can’t use them as leverage anymore. Killing them would be a waste of time and resources. The past three years have been kind of rough on us.” Jack blew a perfect smoke ring. “Change the PINs back, Bear.”

“No,” Bear said, taking a long drink, feeling the scotch warm his veins.

“What about my other offer?”

Bear swallowed and put the empty glass on the desk “No.”

Jack nodded his head, drained his glass and said “OK. I’m sorry to hear that. Really.”

“I’m sorry to say that,” Bear laughed bitterly. “Do we have time for one more?”

“And waste such good scotch?” He pushed his glass towards Bear.

He poured another glass for himself and Jack. “Is there anything you can do to get Violet out of this?” he finally asked after another silence, not as companionable as the first one.

“Yeah, there is,” Jack said. “She gives us the information instead of the Ice Man.”

Bear mulled this over. “She has no love for Mycroft,” he said slowly “Ask her the right way, she might consider the possibility.”

“What about the Virgin?”

“You and I both know she’s only using him to stay alive. He’s not going to influence her in any way. Hell, the fucking weirdo might drive her to tell you everything. She might even tell you where Hoffa’s body is at and who really killed Kennedy.” He took another puff on his cigar.

Jack laughed. “Ah shit,” he said forlornly. “I’m going to miss you Bear.”

Bear felt his mouth go dry. He took another fortifying drink. “So no thirds?” he tried to quip but it fell horrendously flat. “Jack, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Don’t beg,” Jack said, reaching for the gun.

“I’m not,” Bear said evenly “Just pointing out a fact. It doesn’t have to be this way. Your life doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Will you change the PINs back?”

“Are you still going to shoot me if I do?”

“Yes.”

“Then no.”

“And you still decline my original offer?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Jack said.”What you don’t understand is that I like my life this way.”

“You’re right,” Bear said. “I don’t understand.”

Jack stubbed his cigar out in Bear’s coffee mug and pushed it towards Bear. Bear took one last drag and followed suit. “That’s why I’m the profiler, Bear. It’s my job to get inside people’s heads.” Just like I know you think this act of self-sacrifice will protect Agent Hunter he thought but with real regret. He honestly liked Bear. He was the closest thing to a true friend he would ever have.

But the work came first. Always.

Bear finished his drink. “Well, get on with it then,” he said, afraid his courage would fail him, that he would start begging.

Jack pointed the gun at Bear’s forehead. “I love you, brother,” he said, tears in his eyes again.

Then don’t do thi- Bear started to think.

But the bullet stopped that thought.

**

15 March 2015
A quiet coffee shop…
Sunday morning
11:45 AM

Going to church had always felt more like a chore to John, performed out of duty than out of devotion. After he got serious with Mary, he discovered going to church with her was something actually enjoyable rather than something to be endured.

Granted, John thought ninety percent of what the vicar said during the service was a load of rubbish but he was a nice man who meant well and looked out for his small parish. After all, he took John under his wing when he was still recuperating from both the Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes. He had also been kind enough to overlook the whole premarital relations bit when John and Mary got quite serious. But he had been a bit too delighted to agree to marry them, almost relieved in fact, as if he was pulling another couple away from the dangers of Living In Sin.

At any rate, the music during the services was always quite pleasant and the flowers always fresh and pretty. The church itself, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood hidden from the tourists, was a pretty little stone chapel instead of some massive cathedral like St. Paul’s or Westminster. It was just a very peaceful atmosphere where John could entertain the idea that maybe there was an Omnipotent Spirit guiding the universe and maybe, just maybe there was a reason for the madness. That everything will sort itself out in the end. 

As he had been fussing with his tie and Mary was finishing putting on the last touches of her make-up, John’s mobile had chirped. He had picked it up off the nightstand and read:

“Come to Baker Street regardless of convenience.
Recalled you wanted to tell me something of great importance regarding my new flat-mate – SH”

He had sighed, shook his head and resolutely texted back:

“Going to church w/Mary.
Will stop by afterwards.
Have rest of the day and evening free - JW.”

He could hear Sherlock sneering on the other end as if he had actually called instead of texted. No matter. He had told Mary he chose her and he was going to create boundaries with Sherlock and enforce them. Or die trying.

After the services, the victor looked startled when he saw the shiner on John’s face as a result from Friday night’s adventure. However he kindly refrained from commenting, just shook his hand, thanked him for coming, hoped to see him next week.

It was nice, doing normal things with his wife. Things like church and going to the nearby coffee shop afterwards for breakfast and chatting. “So do I need to have bail money ready?” John munched on a pastry. “Or will you girls behave yourself this time?”

“Oh we called off the bank heist,” Mary said lightly “When we realized they were all closed on Sundays. We’ll have to content ourselves with going shopping and seeing a film instead.”

Once a month, Mary met up with a group of women she had been friends with since she had been started her nursing training. Mary made the mistake of telling John the time she and her friends had spent the night in gaol because they threw a little party that had been a little too rowdy and then Mary and her friends had gotten a little too mouthy when the police arrived. (There may or may not have been drink and marijuana involved, Mary would never confirm nor deny those allegations.)

John wasn’t sure if Mary had been Mary or “ABRA” when she met these women while studying to become a nurse… but they all called her Mary and Sherlock had reassured John that these friends of hers were harmless…. and mind-numbing boring, which was music to John’s ears.

Actually the most exciting things Mary and her friends did these days was to meet for coffee and pop into expensive shops just for the fun of looking around. Most of Mary’s friends, mothers of small children, were just grateful to get out of the house without small grubby hands clutching their skirts or trouser legs.

“Will you still need the getaway car?” John asked.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Mary replied. “But that reminds me, be sure to get that bag of clothes and things I gathered for Violet out of the boot before you go over to Sherlock’s. I can’t imagine losing everything in a fire, how awful,” she shuddered slightly. “Makes me want to go around and check all the smoke detectors.”

“So what you’re saying,” John said, “if you’d like me to check the batteries in the smoke detectors when I get home tonight?”

“Well, now that you mention it,” Mary said as John’s mobile chirped. “Ah, the master beckons,” she teased, sipping her coffee.

“Stop,” he said but he smiled as he checked his mobile. “Huh,” his forehead wrinkled as he frowned in confusion. “That’s odd. It’s not from Sherlock… or anyone in my contacts list.”

“Oh,” Mary said “Wrong number perhaps?”

“Dunno,” John said, brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Mary said, noticed her husband’s forehead had crinkled up like a bulldog’s. 

“It’s strange. All it says is: ‘I admire you’ and that’s it, look,” he held the mobile out for Mary to see. “Do you recognize the number? Does one your patients have a crush on you?” John tried to joke but it fell flat. “Maybe this was meant for you, not me.”

“Heavens no, I’m an old married lady, the boys all drool over the pretty young nurses fresh from uni, not me,” she also strove for normalcy but also failed. “Uh… perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have either Sherlock or Greg look into that?”

“Right,” John said, pocketing his mobile. “It’s probably nothing, but can’t be too careful,” but his stomach twisted. “OK, then. I’m off,” He stood up. Mary’s friends were meeting her at this coffee shop “Unless you want me to wait?”

Mary gave him a loving but slightly impatient look over her coffee cup. “Now you’re being paranoid.” The chimes above the entry door dinged and both John and Mary looked up to see one of Mary’s friends enter. She saw them, smiled and waved at the doctor and nurse. “And I’m not alone, so go on. Just text me if you’re going to be late.”

John walked around the table to give Mary a kiss. “Right, see you later, love. Good morning, Carol,” he said warmly to Mary’s friend, giving her a quick polite kiss on the cheek.

“The clothes,” Mary called after him, holding up the car keys.

“Right,” John said, circling back for the keys.

After retrieving the bulging bag of Mary’s clothes and returning the keys back to her, John finally was on his way back to Baker Street. He was curious to see how well Sherlock and Violet had fared on their own last night.

And was also curious to find out why Sherlock evidently trusted her when he did not.     

Exiting the cab, he was pleased to find the building was still standing. After the last few days, it was not an overreaction to expect to find rubble and smoke instead of a perfectly ordinary block of flats. He paid the cabbie, grabbed the bag of clothes and went inside.

Even though he still had a copy of the key, John knocked.

“It’s open John,” Sherlock’s voice drawled from inside.

John opened the door to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, dressed in one of his fine designer suits as usual, fingers steepled together, his chin resting on his fingertips. His eyes were closed. A cup of tea sat untouched on the small table next to him. Gladstone sat next to his feet.

John noticed faint bluish-purplish rings under Sherlock’s eyes indicating he had not slept.

“She is bathing,” Sherlock said softly, almost a whisper “So whatever important thing you were going to say about her yesterday you best tell me now and quickly as possible.”

“She knew about the Fall before it happened,” John said tersely. “She tried to tell Sally you were innocent, that you never hurt the Ambassador’s children, but Sally ignored her-” here Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “-then after the Fall, she got through to Lestrade and told him Moriarty forced you to jump. Lestrade recorded the call. He played it for me, the recording, and he asked me to help him track down the caller.  I recognized the caller’s voice on Friday when we were in the lift but I couldn’t place it right away because-”

“Because on Friday she had been speaking in an English accent but when she placed the call to Lestrade, she used her true accent, her American voice, which triggered your sensation of déjà vu,” Sherlock finished John’s sentence. “It’s all starting to come together now… I deduced she has broken in here at least thrice before the Fall, the last time prior to the Baskerville case. That explains also why Moriarty broke in here while we were investigating that particular case; it was not merely to film it and post it on your blog in order to taunt us. No. He realized Agent Hunter had some sort of change of heart and was no longer interested in obtaining information that could hurt me or my brother. He knew she withheld information from him, he thought he could find what she hid from him.”

You mean what you were hiding John thought, his stomach twisting again. If Violet had broken into 221B Baker Street to dig up dirt on Sherlock, that meant she came to also dig up dirt on him as well. “So Violet was working for Moriarty?”

“Obviously,” he said as Gladstone sat up. Sherlock, eyes still closed, reached over and scratched the dog’s ears. “How else did Moriarty gather all that information on me to orchestrate the Fall? Mycroft gave him plenty but not enough to push me over the edge… so to speak.”

“Why,” John said slowly, “did she change her mind?”  Sherlock didn’t answer, just continued to scratch the dog’s ears. Gladstone’s tail thumped against the floor. John tried again. “What do you think she found that made her change her mind? To make her stop helping Moriarty?”

“Guilt,” Sherlock drawled, emphasizing the T at the end of the word.

“Um, Sherlock? Maybe it would be a good idea not to leave Mary and Violet alone together any longer than strictly necessary.” John’s blood chilled at the idea of Violet discovering who Mary really was… and vice versa. He paused, shivered slightlythen added emphatically “Ever.”  

“Probably a wise decision,” Sherlock continued scratching Gladstone’s ears with his eyes closed. Gladstone thumped his tail against the floor enthusiastically.

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom creaked opened. Violet came out, her hair damp, wearing Sherlock’s blue dressing robe

“Hi John,” She looked wan and tired, but her voice was even and calm.

His eyes still closed, Sherlock said “Stop wearing my clothes.”

As Violet opened her mouth, probably intending to say something witheringly cruel, John, remembering the bag he was holding. Quickly he thrust the bag towards her and said: “Here, Mary went through some of her old things for you. I’m not sure if they’ll fit, I’m useless at guessing women’s sizes,” he held the bag out to her.

“Oh this is great, tell Mary I said thank you,” Violet took the bag from him, her face softening in gratitude. “This will tie me over until I get a chance to go shopping.” Scowling at Sherlock, she said “If someone would call his Big Brother and ask him to unfreeze Violet Smith’s bank accounts, that is.”

“There’s a credit card underneath my skull,” Sherlock said, still scratching Gladstone’s ears with his eyes shut.

“And listen to you bitch about how I’m spending your money?” Violet snapped. “No thanks, I listened to you complain last night how much groceries cost.”

“Wait, hang on, you bought food... Together?” John asked.

Sherlock ignored John. “It’s not my credit card. It’s Mycroft’s.”

“Oh, that’s completely different,” Violet said, brightening up a bit, going over to pick up the skull and retrieve the credit card. “John, is there anything you and Mary want? Mycroft’s buying,” she waved the card in her free hand while clutching the bag of clothes in the other.

Fantasies of new appliances and a better flat-screen television danced through John’s head.  (The speakers on the one Sherlock had dismantled and reassembled then given him for his birthday only worked on the left side and sometimes the picture would only come in black-and-white. But still, a free television was a free television.) Reluctantly John let those fantasies dance away. “Won’t Mycroft notice he’s suddenly racking up a bill on a credit card he hasn’t used in some time? Perhaps he cancelled it.”

“He did not,” Sherlock said, finally opening his eyes. This morning, they appeared pale green, like sea foam. “As far as any bills, well, he can consider that my fee for caring for a ward of the State.” His mobile buzzed inside his dress jacket. He pulled it out and read the text message. “Get dressed,” he said curtly to Violet “Quickly. John, you’re needed as well.”

“What is it?” John asked. “Who was the text from?” He reminded himself to tell Sherlock about his strange text later.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, standing up to his full height, “The game continues,” he said as he started to furiously text.

“What?” John said.

Violet’s voice no longer sounded even nor calm. “They found Bear,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his mobile.

“Who’s Bear?” John felt annoyed at being out of the loop.

“Mr. Carruthers, or rather, Section Chief Robert Carson of the FBI, in charge of the doomed team Agent Hunter was party to until they all were burned.” Sherlock finished his text and nimbly put the mobile back into his pocket. “I will get you up to speed while Agent Hunter dresses and Violet?” He looked at her, lips pursed, as if struggling with a complicated brainteaser. “Your superior’s demise is most untimely and unfortunate, indeed,” he said quickly, hurrying to grab his cup of tea and darted into the kitchen presumably to toss the cold liquid down the drain.

 “That’s as sympathetic as he gets,” John said apologetically.

“Honestly, I would have been creeped out if he gave me a hug and asked if I wanted to talk,” Violet said with a faint smile.

 “So would’ve I, to tell you the truth,” John found himself warming to this woman (even though he really didn’t want to) “Better get a move on. Can’t go out in his dressing robe, although he would… Fair warning, you may need to approve his wardrobe before he leaves the flat.”

He got a real smile from Violet “I saw the tabloid pictures of him wearing the bed sheet.”

**

Again, John was amazed at Violet’s transformation. She had scraped her hair back severely into a bun at the nape of her neck as there was no time for the lengthy process of straightening her chestnut curls. The make-up not only concealed her freckles but wiped at least five years from her face from the artful way she applied shadow and liner and lip color. Despite Sherlock’s grousing about wasting time, she pressed the khakis she had worn yesterday so they had military-precise creases and polished her brown boots since they had finally dried from her impromptu swim in the Thames. She wore one of Mary’s old powder-blue jumpers and a pair of fake eyeglasses and Agent Hunter essentially disappeared, letting Miss Smith come forth.

Even her body language had changed. Her movements were elegant and refined as she walked ahead of Sherlock and John down the stairs and out the building to hail a cab.

The only thing out of character was the dreadful puffy pink coat she wore, but it couldn’t be helped. Her leather jacket was still at the cleaners with Sherlock’s Belstaff and while the weather steadily improved it was not yet warm enough to go without a proper coat.

She also had with her the black messenger bag as usual. Earlier that morning, Sherlock persuaded her to leave some of the bulkier, heavier items in a hidden safe he had installed in John’s room after he had moved out to live with Mary. She had relented, except for an iPad and a small handgun. Sherlock had a feeling she probably slept with both now. As she had taken items out of the bag, Sherlock realized the electronics had survived the plunge into the Thames because she had double-bagged them in plastic freezer bags and had taped the bags shut for good measure. Clever girl, he silently applauded her practicality.

He also noticed she still wore the gold watch she had been wearing the first day they met, although it no longer worked after being submerged in the Thames. Interesting…

The bag was on her lap as the three of them sat jammed next to each other like sardines in a tin in the backseat of a small cab. Sherlock was stuck in the middle. “This won’t do,” he whined, his knees nearly touching his chin.

“No one is comfortable, darling,” Violet said, somehow making darling sound like jackass, even when her using her British accent.

The cab pulled up in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. When the cab pulled away, all three of them automatically looked up at the roof, all three of them wrestled with unhappy memories.

“Mother of God…” Violet finally said, in her “real” voice, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” John said, agreeing with her unspoken thoughts.  

The tall, thin man standing between them said quite calmly, “The view is far worse from up there, I assure you. However, we are going down, today, not up.” He tore his eyes away from that hateful rooftop and said “Miss Smith, shall we get this over with?”

Both Violet and John looked away from the rooftop. “Yes,” she said, slipping into her British accent. “Let’s get this over with.” She jammed her hands in her coat pocket and looked at the tips of her boots.

“Put your arm around her shoulder,” John said firmly.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I know public displays of affection seem sentimental and foolish to you but that is the proper thing to do when your significant other is going through a traumatizing event,” John explained. “No one expects you to suddenly become a cuddly old teddy bear, but if you don’t show her some physical affection, especially when she’s here to identify a body, people are going to talk.”

“He’s right,” Violet said tightly, in her “real” voice.

John felt bad, realizing how short he had just sounded, especially since “the body” had been a trusted friend who had kept her alive for the past seven years. Unfortunately, sometimes the only way to navigate Sherlock through emotional waters was with complete bluntness.

Face screwed up in irritation, Sherlock awkwardly draped his arm over her shoulder then pulled her into his side, protectively. “Like this?” He could feel Violet’s arm slide up his back, her hand resting between his shoulder blades, her head resting against his chest slightly.

“That’ll do,” John said. To Violet, in a far gentler voice, he asked “You ready?”

She nodded. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, reverting to her “fake” voice.  

Soon they were in the hospital morgue. Both Detective Inspector Lestrade and Molly Hooper waited for them outside the morgue doors, talking quietly to each other, their heads close together. They both turned their heads when they heard Sherlock, Violet and John’s footsteps. Molly’s eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock holding Miss Smith. She held her clipboard tighter to her stomach as if to shield herself from a pending blow.

Sherlock felt his throat and chest tighten. Molly…

There hadn’t been time to tell her about anything.

But after one look at Lestrade, Sherlock deduced he hadn’t been able to keep quiet about Sherlock’s new girlfriend (ugh, I need to find a less insipid word than that one he thought). “As DI Lestrade probably has already informed you, this is Miss Smith,” he said curtly.

“Miss Smith,” Lestrade tried to cover up his blunder “I am sorry to see you again under these circumstances.”

Sherlock felt her hand gripping the back of his coat now. He knew she wasn’t playacting, her anxiety was palpable. Of course her anxiety suddenly skyrocketed. Lestrade had heard her true voice. John had recognized it years later, even though she had been using a fake accent. She was terrified if she spoke, Lestrade would also recognize her voice as well…

Because she had been the one who tipped him off about the bomb in the surgery, the bomb that had started this entire adventure, of course… Sherlock realized.

That also explained why she had balked when he took her to Scotland Yard yesterday, of course. Stupid he hadn’t realized it until now, really. This was also why she spoke as little as possible around Lestrade and left his office when the first opportunity presented itself.

John had recognized her voice, would Lestrade?

“Let’s not draw this out,” Sherlock said harshly, so Violet wouldn’t have to speak.

“Alright then,” Lestrade grumbled, opening the door. Violet delicately shrugged Sherlock’s arm off and followed Lestrade down the hallway, with Sherlock, John and Molly in tow.

Sherlock didn’t think it was necessary to put his entire arm over her shoulders again once they were in the morgue. That seemed like a bit of overkill. After a sharp glance from John however, he did put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

His fingertips grazed her carotid artery, felt her racing pulse. Her entire body vibrated.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “Do your pranayama exercises.”

Violet took a deep cleansing breath then started inhaling deeply through her nose only.

The three of them stood at the foot of the metal slab. Lestrade stood by the left shoulder of the body while Molly stood at the right. “Are you ready, Miss Smith?” Molly asked gently. “This can be a shocking experience.”

“Mm,” Violet closed her eyes for a second. Then she nodded and opened her eyes again.

Molly leaned over and unzipped the black body bag. There was a crinkling of plastic as Molly pulled the bag away from the body’s face.

Sherlock could feel Violet’s trembling increase as she bowed her head and covered her face. “Violet,” he said into her ear, soft enough so not to deafen her but loud enough for the entire room to hear “Is that man Robert Carruthers, your boss?”

Violet nodded furiously then pushed past him and accidentally bumped into John as she bolted from the morgue.

“Go after her,” John said as Sherlock started walking towards the body, his eyes alight with anticipation.

“Why?” Sherlock demanded. “If she would have wanted my company, she would have taken me with her. I would be more useful to her if I determine who murdered her employer and friend rather than patting her on the back and saying ‘There there, it’s going to be alright.’”

“Oh boy,” Lestrade said under his breath.

“Sherlock,” John strove for patience. “No one is judging you, but we all know… ah… relationships aren’t your area of expertise. Usually when a woman is upset and runs off, she doesn’t want to be alone, she wants you to follow her and comfort her.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock’s icy voice bouncing off the walls. In the black pea-coat and the gloom of the morgue, he looked almost vampiric. “You are making an assumption based off of your previous experience with women. I have observed Violet and have deduced that when she looks me in the eye, she either wants me or needs to tell me something important. When she doesn’t want me or need me, she avoids looking at me in the face. Think, John. Think back carefully and remember that first day you met Miss Smith.” 

John did, knowing Sherlock was being vague not to be a pain in the arse but because of Lestrade. Still John didn’t know what Sherlock was getting at… then he said “Oh… OK.”

Because he remembered how that very first day, that afternoon when they got on the lift together and had made that fateful walk down the office to the conference room, Violet refused to make eye-contact with Sherlock. But after Mr. Carruthers (real name Robert Carson, apparently, nicknamed ‘Bear’) had stormed out of the conference room, Violet had looked Sherlock in the eye and flat out told him to leave this case alone, it was too dangerous.

And she had been right.

“No, he’s right,” John said as Lestrade and Molly gaped at him.

“Of course I’m right, why is everyone, after all this time, still so astonished when I’m right about something?” Sherlock said, peeved.

“Because you’re usually so blindingly wrong about women,” Lestrade reminded him. “Shall I recount the highlights of the 2010 Christmas party at your flat?”

“Not necessary!” Molly said in a thin, high voice, not wanting to relive the moment when Sherlock abjectly humiliated her when he cruelly mocked a present she had bought and wrapped just for him (and had returned to the store after he had behaved like such as bastard. Molly was sweet, not spineless.) “John, I do think you should go after her then, just to make sure she’s OK and doesn’t get lost. This can seem like a spooky old maze if you don’t know where you’re going,” she tried to laugh. “Um, is there anything else you need, Detective Inspector?” she asked Lestrade.

“No,” Lestrade said. “Not right at the moment. Miss Smith was listed as his next of kin; poor bloke didn’t have any relations. She’ll have to organize the funeral and contact his solicitors and all that. When she’s composed herself, I’ll need to ask her some questions… you two,” he said sternly. “Is there any connection between this man’s death and the bombings?”

“Dunno,” John said while Sherlock firmly said “No.”

“I’m sorry?” John said “This time I’m honestly not sure I heard you correctly? Did you say no?”

“I did,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning. The bombings are some sort of red herring, to distract all law enforcement, including myself (although I do not typically include myself with the law enforcement aspect as my methods are clearly superior to yours and therefore I am to be set above the law enforcement agencies rather than included) from the real crimes that being committed. A few abandoned factories and surgeries in city slums are nothing to what the real enemy is accomplishing right underneath our very noses.”

“And what is that?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock circled the body now, hands clasped behind his back “No idea,” he said smoothly. “But I assure you, whatever the true criminal enterprise may be; it will be spectacularly nefarious because I recognize the hallmarks of all these crimes. The bombings, they all used Semtex, the very same explosions Moriarty used while playing his Great Game with me. The buildings, old abandoned warehouses and factories, where addicts go to procure drugs, well that was a deliberate taunt at me, mocking my addictions, my weakness. The surgery bombing, obvious, my friendship and partnership with Dr. Watson. Violet Smith’s flat along with two city blocks burning down? She lived on Hartwill Avenue… Hartwill… hart… will… heart… will… I will burn the heart out of you….”

“Oh God,” John said, now feeling completely sick, hearing Jim Moriarty’s foul voice, feeling that heavy horrible weight of the suicide bomber vest on him again. “This has all been a game.” The text he suddenly remembered. I’m part of the game…

 “Yes,” Sherlock did not even bother to hide his enjoyment. “Yes, John, this has been nothing more than a game, but what a game it is. One giant puzzle, a maze, to keep us running around and around like rats sniffing out the cheese while they carry on with their true enterprises while we are completely distracted,” his eyes glowed “Oh I recognize this level of planning and commitment… making sure those buildings were all reinsured by the same company just to ensure I would find the pattern and sink my teeth in… brilliant. Oh, how wonderful it is to have a worthy adversary again!”

“Uh, Sherlock?” John said “Your worthy adversary just killed a man.” He pointed at the body.

“And who is this adversary?” Lestrade demanded.

“One that is out of NSY’s jurisdiction, fortunately for you,” Sherlock said, examining the bullet hole in Bear’s forehead. “This is not an organization you wish to be upon their radar.”

“Well, we can’t just drop this,” Lestrade huffed, hands on hips.

“You can and will when my dearest brother has one of his minions from MI-6 contact you and tell you they are taking over,” Sherlock said. “Although it would be best if you have two of your worst detectives assigned to the case so they make a complete pig’s ear of the thing, therefore making it appear we are still unwittingly playing their little game…”

“I’ll assign Anderson to the case,” Lestrade sighed.

“Good,” Sherlock grunted, nose-to-nose with the corpse. “Molly, gloves and coffee. John, go check on Violet. Lestrade?”

“Yeah?”

“Go away.”

“Can you at least treat me like a big boy and tell me who this mystery gang is?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock straightened up. “Once you go down the rabbit hole, you do not get to climb back out.”

“I can handle it,” Lestrade jutted his chin out.

Sherlock looked at Molly, “Coffee,” he snapped.

“Don’t talk to her that way,” Lestrade took a step forward. John reached up and put a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder.

“You can handle it,” Sherlock said, taking off his coat, “Can she?”

“Yes,” Molly said, her arms wrapped around her waist. “It’s Moriarty’s people or network, or whatever, isn’t it?”

All three men stared at the pretty auburn woman standing next to the body, wearing a white lab coat over a baggy lavender sweater, frumpy khakis trousers and sensible shoes.

“I went out with Jim Moriarty remember? When I thought he was just some guy from IT,” she reminded him. “I helped you with the Fall. I’m one of the few people who really know how you did it, survived. I took care of you at your brother’s until you were well enough to leave Englan-”

“Hang on, what?” John squawked.

Sherlock shushed him “I told you I’d explain later, on my terms. This is not later.”  

“And,” Molly raised her voice over Sherlock’s “I knew what you were going to do after you left England, you were going to after Them, Moriarty’s people. And it is Them, isn’t it? The same ones you went after for two years while everyone else thought you were dead.”

The morgue stayed silent for a beat or two while Lestrade and John stared at The Great Detective. Then as if coming out of a trance, Sherlock said. “Yes. It’s Them. I failed,” he said stiffly. “Two years I hunted them and I failed to wipe them out. When I came back to London, they apparently came back after me. Unfinished business. Keep me occupied until they finish their work… then they will come to finish me.”

I will burn the heart out of you… 

“Do they have a proper name?” Lestrade asked, his face ashen, stepping closer to Molly, as if to protect her from an approaching assailant. “This… Them that you’re talking about?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said unwillingly. “They call themselves the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten:  The Sum of the Whole

“And what do they do exactly?” Lestrade asked. “This Rouge… whatever, sorry, my French is bloody awful.”

John cleared his throat, having worked it out for himself while the others had been talking “Whatever they are paid to do,” he said. “They’re consulting criminals.”

Sherlock beamed at John. “Well done, John,” he murmured, pleased he didn’t have to spell it out for him. John’s skill at observation and deduction improved daily by leaps and bounds.

“Um,” Lestrade was working something else out for himself. “Your girl, Sherlock… is Miss Smith involved-”

“No,” Sherlock said crisply.

“You sure?” Lestrade couldn’t help himself. He received a withering glance in return. “Alright, alright, sorry, sorry,” he held up his hands in defense. “Right, so I’ve got confirmation of the body… I’ll assign Anderson to this case to ensure it gets completely bollocked up until I get the call from MI-bloody-6 to turn the investigation over to them. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so, come on,” John gestured to Lestrade to follow him as he walked towards the door. “Let’s find Miss Smith and let Sherlock work, OK? And I don’t know about you, but,” John checked his watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime.” The coffee and pastries he had with Mary seemed like a lifetime ago instead of two hours ago. “I’m a bit peckish, let’s get Miss Smith and see if we can’t get her to eat something.”

He also wanted to talk to Lestrade in private about his mystery text.

And he suddenly felt the urge to check in with Mary to make sure she was alright…

Not that Mary was incapable to taking care of herself of course. Still, he worried.

“Molly? Sherlock? Need anything from the cafeteria?” Lestrade shoved his hands in his coat pocket, looking back and forth from the pathologist and the detective.

“Coffee, two sugars,” Sherlock said while putting on latex gloves.

Molly shook her head, turning her lips down. “Thanks though.”

As the doors swung shut, Sherlock noted she briefly touched her abdomen before turning to him. “I’m not upset,” she told him. “That you didn’t tell me you had a girlf-”

“It’s a very recent development,” he said quickly, turning from her, focusing on the dead body. “I haven’t had an opportunity to introduce you to her properly.”

“Greg said she seemed very nice,” Molly said, prepping for the autopsy. “I need to change into my hospital scrubs. Can I trust you alone with the body or will you be hitting it with a riding crop while I’m gone?”

“Visual examination only,” he murmured. As she started walking towards the door, he added “Congratulations by the way.”  

She froze. Then her shoulders slumped and she walked back around the slab so she could face him. “Should have known better to think you wouldn’t notice,” she said. “What gave me away?”

Sherlock continued to examine the body, using his tiny magnifying glass. “Rings under your eyes and slow movements signify fatigue. Obvious weight gain, mostly noticeable in your face and breasts. However, you turned down the offer of food, indicating the idea of eating repels you. Your hair is thicker, fuller, from the pre-natal vitamins. The way you unconsciously touch your belly, as if shielding it from any sort of threat….I deduce you are still in the first trimester.”

“Nine weeks,” she said, completely aware she touched her abdomen now.

Sherlock looked up. He had heard about how pregnant women supposedly glowed. Not Molly. Her absolute happiness made her shine brighter than the sun.

“Is it mine?” he asked bluntly, putting his magnifying glass back in his pocket.

Her light dimmed a bit. “Yes,” she said.  

Sherlock closed his eyes. No. Not good…

“Molly,” he said. “I can’t… I’m not a good...” he gripped the sides of the slab. “There is something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m incapable of… I would be a terrible father.”

Father. He nearly choked on the word.

He lifted his eyes up. Saw that Molly had not burst into tears or run away. She didn’t even look angry. She looked like she had been expecting exactly this reaction. “But you are already aware what a terrible parent I would be, aren’t you?”

She walked around the slab and stood next to him. “You’re not the only one who changed after you left and everything that had happened when you came back,” she said softly, reaching down, taking his hand. “I’m not the silly little girl with a crush on you anymore. I finally grew up, you see. I still love you, of course and always will… but I’m not in love with you.”

Sherlock never thought words could ever wound him like hers did. Which was utterly ridiculous because he had known for a very long time her infatuation with him was over. Plus he wasn’t in love with her either, never had been … she had been more or less background noise to him in the beginning, when they first met… still… his throat felt very tight now and his eyes embarrassingly wet. He wanted to flee or at least find a way to hide his face.

 And yet he couldn’t look away from her, even though he knew this time, this one time, she would be able to deduce him instead of the other way around.

Would serve him right if she choose to be as hateful to him as he had been to her at that infamous 2010 Christmas party.

But she wouldn’t be Molly if she had a malevolent streak.  Still holding his hand, she said softly “I know you were very, very high that night. And I had a bit more to drink than I realized… And I was lonely. So I’m afraid I may have taken advantage of you,” her cheeks pinked up.

He chuckled slightly. Sweet, sensible Molly Hooper had succeeded where sophisticated, seductive Irene Adler had failed. The tight feeling in his throat had lessened as did the dampness in his eyes. Logic and reason had started reasserting itself, thank God.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?” he purred, sounding more like himself.

“Yes, well, OK,” she said, flustered, sounding more like the Molly of old, the Molly before the Fall. “I guess, I dunno. But…” she touched her stomach and said “Then this happened, which I still don’t understand, I was on the Pill.”

“Not always effective,” he said “Especially if you don’t take them religiously.”

“Obviously,” Molly used his favorite word with a smile. Then she dropped her eyes “I can’t expect you to be something you’re not. You’re not… you’re not,” she shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You must stop saying things like that and that you’re a sociopath, because you’re not. You are a good person, Sherlock Holmes,” she squeezed his hand tightly. “But I’m afraid you are right…  You would be an awful father, especially if the child wasn’t a proper genius like you. You’re not very patient with us ordinary people.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed. “I don’t want anything from you,” she said in a rush. “I don’t expect child support or anything-”

“Molly…”

“And I won’t stop you from seeing the baby… unless you are using again, of course.”

Sherlock hung his head, unable to look at her now.

“And I won’t nag you to see the baby if you don’t want to, but I’m also not telling anyone you’re the father because your work is so dangerous and if the wrong people ever found out who my baby belongs to…” she ran out of steam, then took a breath and started again. “But I am telling you because you deserve to know. So… that’s most of it, then.” She let go of his hand.  

For the longest time, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights. Finally Sherlock took a deep breath after mulling over everything Molly had said. “You are making a sensible decision,” he said quietly. Molly could barely hear him. “But you will receive financial compensation for the child’s care and education. I’ll have a trust fund set up for him that he will access to once he is of age. After he is born, I will have my will changed so he is one of my heirs. It will be completely your decision to tell him or not tell him I am his father, I won’t interfere.” He cleared his throat. “Does anyone else know about your… condition?”

“Yes,” she said. “Greg.”

“Ah,” he said, “Of course, that’s why he got angry when he thought I was rude to you-“

“You were rude to me.”

Sherlock ignored her, feeling more in control of the situation. “When did you two reunite?”

“About a month or so ago,” she admitted. “We didn’t split because we fell out of love. We split because he was still legally married and well, I wasn’t OK with going out with a married man, even though they lived separately. But we started talking again after his divorce was finalized and after you and I had… well, you know…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This is why he hated anything that had to do with sex. Complicated. Messy. Annoying. Inconvenient. “Indeed I do, now,” he intoned. “Continue.”

“I told him it was a fling, a one-night-stand sort of thing, which is true, I suppose. I thought he would run, think I was some sort of tart, but he didn’t run. And hasn’t,” Molly smiled.

“He is a good man,” Sherlock admitted. “I anticipate he’ll ask you to marry him very soon, as soon as an acceptable amount of time has passed from when his first marriage ended.”

“He hasn’t officially asked me yet, not like proper proposal with a ring, but we have discussed it, or at the very least, moving in together,” Molly said. “That is also why I wanted to tell you. When I told Greg, he said as far as he’s concerned it is his baby. So I wanted you to know your child will have a proper father figure in his life and will be taken care of and protected.”

“That…” Sherlock struggled for the right words “That… is a good thing, yes,” he nodded. “As long as you’re both safe… that is my only concern. You are important to me… always have been…. You do count… both of you now… and if you weep I will think of something shatteringly cruel to say and leave.”

“If I’m weepy it’s because of the hormone-surge,” Molly dabbed her eyes with the hem of her shirt sleeve.

“And for pity’s sake, give the poor tyke a decent, normal name. Please, I beg you.”

Molly laughed. “I promise. But now, I have to ask… Miss Smith?”

“Violet,” he said. “She’s called Violet.”

“Violet,” she said. “Are you going to tell her about… this?”

“No,” he said.

Molly waited for an explanation but he provided none. “Would she be upset if she found out?”

“No,” Sherlock said honestly. “But I am not telling her for the same reason I am not telling John or Mary or Mrs. Hudson and for the exact same reason you are not telling Lestrade about the child’s true paternity. I have too many enemies-” And so does Violet he thought “-and it is simply just not safe for anyone else to know. Although, I am glad you told me. Truly.”

Molly heaved a shaky sigh. “Good,” she said. “Well, I suppose I should change into my scrubs so we can get to work.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the corpse on the mortuary slab, aching to get to work indeed. He desperately needed a distraction from the landmine he just stepped on. I must never never get as high as I was that night ever again He thought shamefully as Molly walked out of the morgue. What have I done? To her… to myself…

To the child. His child…

Oh God…

***

While Molly was busy dismantling Sherlock’s perfectly ordered world, John and Lestrade scoured the hallways, looking for Violet.

“Greg,” John said urgently, “I haven’t had a chance to tell Sherlock, but I got a weird text this morning,” he dug his phone out of his good trousers (he never did have a chance to change from the suit he had worn to church this morning) “Here, look.”

Lestrade took the mobile from John, his eyebrows lifting as he read. “Huh,” he said. “Normally I’d tell you it’s just some nutter, an obsessed fan, but after hearing what I just heard…”

“Yeah, exactly,” John said. “I hate to call in a favor, Greg, but-“

“I’ll get one of our techs to look into this right away. Might be a spoofed number, but I’d rather err on the side of caution, especially now. I’ll also have a squad car patrolling your neighborhood on a little more regular basis,” he said, handing the mobile back to John. “John, be straight with me. How much trouble is Sherlock in? And I mean, really in?”

“Loads,” John said miserably. “He might actually be in over his head.”

“If that’s so… If he can’t outsmart Them… then we’re all buggered, aren’t we?”

“It’s starting to look that way.”

They passed the ladies’ washroom just as the door opened. Violet Smith stepped out. “Sorry,” she said hoarsely “Needed a minute.” Her eyes were very red but her make-up had already been repaired.

“Of course,” Lestrade said sympathetically, pulling out a small notepad and pen from his coat pocket. “Do you feel up to answering some questions?”

John noticed that Lestrade’s questions were perfunctory and not very probing. Violet mainly said “Yes”, “No” and “I don’t know.” Lestrade was onboard with Sherlock’s plan.

He also jotted down the number the mystery text came from and told John to stop by NSY sometime to drop off his mobile. “Try not to lose or destroy it between now and then, but I know you’d rather keep it on you right now to stay in touch with Mary. Right then, Miss Smith,” he said “I’m very sorry for your loss. Currently the office is a crime scene. We’ll let you know when you and your employees can go in to retrieve personal items.”

“Of course, thank you,” she said deliberately pitching her voice to a lower octave.

“John, I’ll have to pass on lunch,” Lestrade said.

“Hospital food is crap anyway.”

Lestrade nodded, said good day to both Violet and John, and walked off, deciding he and Molly were going to have a long talk about accelerating their plans to have her move in with him.

There was no way in hell he could let a pregnant woman live on her own. Especially when this particular pregnant woman had unwittingly had dated Jim Moriarty.

When Lestrade was out of earshot, John briefly told her of Sherlock’s revelation and their plan to let it appear the NSY was handling the bombings and Carruthers’ death. Violet nodded.

“They’ll catch on eventually, but it will buy us some time,” she said, still using her “Violet Smith” voice since she didn’t who could possibly walk in on them. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Ah, with Molly, in the morgue,” John said uncomfortably, “Examining your boss for clues.”

“Of course,” Violet said woodenly. “He’s probably more excited about a dead body than a fat kid is about trick-or-treating. She shook her head, “Is there an office I can use? I need to start calling the employees to let them know what has happened plus the solicitors and to make funeral arrangements.”

“I’m sure you can use Molly’s office,” John said.

“The firm will go under,” Violet let John lead her towards Molly’s office. “All those people, now unemployed. The Rouge just as good killed them.”    

The concern in her voice sounded real, her red eyes did seem like it was from crying. But John still remembered the ride Irene Adler took Sherlock on and what happened afterwards, the sad violin compositions, the aimless wanderings through London, that expensive mobile of hers he still kept in his desk drawer.

Irene had been very intelligent and manipulative. So was Violet.

Irene had also been very interesting. So was Violet.

Irene had worked for Moriarty. So had Violet.

Keep your guard up John, he ordered himself.  “What about you? Can’t you take over the business? Run it yourself?”

Violet shook her head. “I’m good at organization and managing people and their expectations, but I don’t have a head for business like Bea- Mr. Carruthers did. I really am Sherlock’s prisoner now, whether or not that was Mycroft’s intent.”

They entered Molly’s tiny office, neat as a pin, everything in its place. Violet sat at Molly’s desk, but instead of using her computer, she pulled her iPad and new Smartphone out of her messenger bag. Powering up the iPad, she looked at John over her fake eyeglasses as he sat down in the chair across from Molly’s desk that barely fit in the room. “Shouldn’t you be helping the Great Detective?”

“Molly Hooper is with him,” John reminded Violet, completely unaware Molly had just completely turned Sherlock’s world upside-down. “If Sherlock needs me, he’ll text me.” 

“Are you my new guard dog, Dr. Watson?” she asked lightly, but her sharp eyes bore into him.

“Something like that,” he said, his tone equally light, but he met her eyes without flinching. You don’t frighten me, Agent Hunter.   

 Violet lifted her eyebrows and broke eye-contact first, beginning her series of telephone calls. John pulled out his mobile and texted his wife to make sure she was safe, under the pretense he wanted just to say hi and to see if she was having a good time with her friends.

Mary of course, read through his pretense immediately:

What’s wrong?– MW

John half-smiled at his mobile, as if Mary could see him. He texted back:

Everything. Will explain later – JW

Violet had just finished leaving messages with Bear’s London solicitor and the firm’s insurance company and was searching on her iPad for a decent funeral home when Molly burst in. John and Violet both immediately noticed how Molly’s eyes were quite red and puffy as well. She had most definitely been crying.

 “Oh,” Molly sniffled, looking from John to Violet and back again. “Hello.”

 “I apologize,” Violet said carefully. “I needed a quiet place to make arrangements for Mr. Carruthers. Taking over your office is very rude.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Molly said. “I’m barely in here most days. I just needed to change before starting the autopsy and I keep a spare pair of scrubs in here.”

“You OK, Molly?” John asked.

“Of course,” she said, a little too brightly.

“Did Sherlock say something to upset you? I’ll have a word with him if he did.”

“No, he’s actually behaving himself for once. I’m just, well, being silly,” Molly said, still a little too brightly. “Um, John, you’re closer, can you hand me my scrubs? They’re in the cabinet next to you, second drawer.”

“Ah, OK,” John said, pulling open the drawer. He got the scrubs and stood up, handing them to Molly. “Molly, I can talk to Sherlock if he is being obnoxious.”

“I am perfectly capable of telling off Sherlock Holmes if necessary,” Molly bridled. Then she softened. “I’m sorry, John, I’m just not feeling very well today, that’s all.”

“Molly, if you’re ill and need to go home, please call your back-up or I can even do the autopsy,” John said. “It’s been a while, but I remember the basics. Y-incision and all that.” 

She shook her head. “I’m OK, really, just a little run-down. I already planned on taking a personal day tomorrow anyway, so it’s fine.”

“Dr. Hooper,” Violet said tentatively “I am sorry, I hate to ask, but did the detective-inspector say who found Mr. Carruthers?”

“The cleaning crew, this morning,” Molly said, surprised Violet had actually called her by her proper title. It seemed like most people forgot forensic pathologists were also medical doctors. “I better hurry; it wouldn’t do to leave Sherlock unsupervised too long in the morgue.”

“Yes, please let him know I will not appreciate him experimenting on my old boss,” Violet said.

“Right,” Molly said. “Well, um, I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances, but I’m glad Sherlock isn’t so alone anymore. Maybe we can all meet for a proper meal sometime? When the time is right, of course.”

“Of course,” Violet demurred. “That would be lovely.”

“OK,” Molly said. “John, give Mary my love.”

“Of course, take care of yourself Molly.”

When Molly shut the door behind her, Violet waiting a few minutes until she was absolutely Molly was gone. In her “real voice”, she said to John “Something’s wrong.”

“What was your first clue? That Molly was a sobbing wreck?”

“Well… that too… but,” Violet shook her head. She didn’t have time for two mysteries. “Our office building doesn’t get cleaned until late at night. Why was there a cleaning crew there in the morning? Especially a Sunday morning? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“They wanted the body found?” John hypothesized.

“Why?” Violet said.

“To send a message?”

“To who? I’m the only one left and I know I’m fucked the minute Sherlock gets bored with me,” she picked up her mobile and started texting. “Or when Mycroft doesn’t need me.”

“Who are you messaging?”

“Sherlock,” she said. “This will be faster than walking to the morgue and I don’t think I can see Bear… like that… again.” She hit Send and leaned back in Molly’s chair, watching her mobile screen. Come on, Sherlock, do that voodoo that you do… what are we missing here?

“You were a profiler for the FBI, right?” John asked, spur of the moment.

“Was,” she muttered, her attention focused fully on the mobile.

“People have been trying to figure out what makes Sherlock, Sherlock,” John said, remembering his earlier conversation with his former flat-mate. “What are your thoughts? Aspersers’? Some sort of autism?” What exactly where you trying to dig up on him, on us Agent Hunter?

“Why do people always assume it has to be a mental disorder?” Violet said, still watching her mobile screen like a hawk.”He’s an ass because he can get away with it, because you all let him get away with it. You’re a doctor. Check the body first, John, then the mind.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Hyperacuity with an eidetic memory,” she said. “Possibly even a mild case of hyperacusis on top of all that.”

John drew a blank at first, and then said “Oh shit, that makes perfect sense.”

Violet nodded “It’s not verified so take it with a grain of salt. But imagine living in his world for a minute, living in a world where you literally see everything without the ability to forget anything.”

“He says he deletes unnecessary information.”

“Bullshit,” Violet said, “He represses it, he doesn’t forget. People like him don’t forget.” Her mobile vibrated. “Oh…” she said, her mouth falling open. Then she took off her fake glasses and buried her face in her hands. She slid her mobile across Molly’s desk towards John. “It was a trap,” she said. “We would have walked right into it if Lestrade hadn’t asked us to come here first to identify the body.”

John picked up the phone and read Sherlock’s responding text: “The fake cleaning crew alerted NSY in order to lure us back to the building. Have texted Lestrade to evacuate the office immediately but am afraid we’re too late – SH”

“Can you pull up a streaming news web on Molly’s computer?” John asked.

“No,” Violet looked at the screen. “It’s password protected, but I can probably get open on up on here,” she scrolled through her apps on the iPad until she found the one for the BBC and with a touch of her finger, opened the button. She turned the volume up as loud as it would go:

“… another suspicious building explosion has occurred in the Financial District of the City of London. Officers from Metropolitan Police and New Scotland Yard were observed arriving at the building earlier, but what they were investigating is not entirely certain. As this is a breaking news story, more details will be provided as they are made available to us. At this time, we strongly caution everyone to avoid this area of the City at this particular time...”

John reached down and hit the Mute button “Jesus Christ.”

“I wonder how many people were in the building when it blew,” Violet said faintly. “The cops, the crime lab techs…” she shook her head and reached for her mobile. She sent a quick text back to Sherlock and slumped down into Molly’s chair, covering her mouth with her trembling hand.

Back in the morgue with Molly, Sherlock felt his mobile vibrate. Sighing, he pulled it out of his pocket and read Violet’s message:

We were too late. Building still standing but floors 7 & 8 are gone. Definite casualties. - VS

“You OK, Sherlock?” Molly asked, getting ready to make the Y-incision.

“Perfectly,” Sherlock slipped the mobile back in his trouser pocket. “I should be asking you that. Not going to be sick all over the body, are you?”

“Funny enough, none of the smells in the morgue make me ill,” Molly said, positioning her scalpel over the dead man’s chest. “Fish and chips on the other hand,” she wrinkled her nose. “Or the smell of any kind of fried food has me running for the nearest loo or bin.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Sherlock said gravely. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” Molly said. Speaking into the microphone hanging over the remains of Section Chief Robert Carson, she said clearly “Starting with the Y incision…” and began cutting.

**

Late in the afternoon, after a very long day at the morgue, Sherlock, John and Violet trudged out of the basement, weary and hungry. Well, John was hungry since he had ended up missing lunch after all. Violet mumbled she didn’t feel hungry but was aware she needed to eat. Sherlock, of course, was on a case so food was beneath him.

John invited Molly to join them for Chinese, but she literally turned green and garbled out an excuse before darting off. “If I didn’t know better…” John said more to himself than anyone.

“What?” Sherlock bit John’s head off anyway. “What idiotic assumption are you about to inflict onto the world, an assumption based off of no credible evidence whatsoever?”

All afternoon he had been exceptionally snotty to everyone who crossed his path (except Molly for some reason). The snide comments had been excessive, even for him.       

“Nothing. God Sherlock, what rained on your damn parade?” John snapped back. “A serial bomber, loads of dead bodies, Moriarty’s ghost haunting us, hiding a disgraced American FBI agent in plain sight. I thought this is what heaven must look like to you.”    

“Can we not do the John-and-Sherlock show now?” Violet asked resignedly. “I saw my boss’s dead body on a slab with a bullet buried in his brain. I’m not in the mood.”

“Let’s just go back to Baker Street and get take-away then,” John proposed, hoping Sherlock would say yes. When Sherlock’s mood was this poisonous, it was best to keep him far, far away from the public. Plus, at home, John might be able to persuade him to eat some egg drop soup.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, still ratty “But don’t expect me to waste precious time or energy feeding like a pig at the trough when there’s a mystery to unravel.”

“Wow,” Violet said, rounding on Sherlock. “OK, when we get back to the flat, you are either going to eat or sleep. So you better decide on the ride home which one you’re going to choose. I’m not putting up with your shitty attitude anymore just because you’re hungry and tired.”

“How dare you,” Sherlock rumbled “Speak to me-“

“Oh shut up,” Violet walked away from him, raising her arm to hail a cab.  

Sherlock turned to John. “She told me to shut up,” he said, astonished at her audacity.

“I’ve told you to shut up loads of time,” John reminded him.

“But you don’t really mean it,” Sherlock said as a cab slowed down for Violet’s raised arm.

John opened his mouth then shut it, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets so he wouldn’t throttle his best friend. The Good Lord is testing me this fine Sunday…

This cab was slightly larger than the one they took that morning so Sherlock took the seat facing the rear window, facing John and Violet, glowering at the pair of them.

“Giving me dirty looks won’t make me change my mind about either force-feeding you or sending you to bed,” Violet informed him with her “Miss Smith” voice. “You’re starved and you’re sleep-deprived and it’s making you unbearable to be around,” she paused and then added “Or I can discreetly take Gladstone for a walk, giving you time to confide in John about what crawled up your arse and died while you were alone with Molly in the autopsy bay.” She pretended to examine her fingernails, “Close your mouths boys,” she said, knowing without looking while both John and Sherlock stared at her open-mouthed.

“Errm, ‘scuse me,” the cabbie interrupted Violet’s profiling. “Were you lot expecting company?”

The three of them peered out of the window then Sherlock ducked down. “Circle the block,” he intoned, squeezing his eyes shut.

Paparazzi swarmed Baker Street like flies around a deer carcass.

“Shit,” John said.

“Kitty Riley,” Sherlock and Violet groaned at the same time.

“Oh no,” John said.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “She must have tipped them off out of spite again.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting her last night,” Violet fumed “Delightful girl. Might still be a bit miffed I smashed her camera when she ambushed us.” She looked down at Sherlock. “Is he alright,” she asked John.

“No, he bloody well isn’t,” John said. “Change of plans, Sherlock, Violet, you’re staying with Mary and I tonight.”

“No,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, balling his fists, willing himself not to scratch.

“Wait, John, I have an idea. Sir,” she called to the cabbie. “After you circle the block, park a few feet away from 221 Baker Street and just let me out for the time being. The gentlemen will leave after the paparazzi depart.”

“We could be here for a very long time,” John warned her.

In her real voice, her American voice, Violet whispered “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

When the cab stopped as Violet instructed, she darted out, pulling the hood of her dreadful pink coat over her face, her messenger bag thumping her on her hip as she ran. She fought her way through the throng of photogs and into the building. What in the ruddy hell is she doing? John wondered, switching seats so he could rest Sherlock’s head on his lap. Miraculously, Sherlock didn’t fight him. John pulled the layers of clothing away from his neck and saw the hives spreading. Unconsciously, he stroked Sherlock’s forehead and hair in an attempt to soothe him. His face felt very clammy and John felt Sherlock’s pulse pounding when he checked it. “Hang in there. We’ll get you home yet, OK?” John whispered, feeling Sherlock gripping his trouser legs, trying to hide his pain as he curled into a fetal position. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and almost wished he was dead. Today had been far too much to bear. He longed for something, anything to make it stop…

Morphine… just one hit… or a Vicodin… or an Oxy… a cigarette, cough syrup, a stiff drink, a joint, something, anything… just something to shut my mind  down only for a little bit…

You would be an awful father…

 It was on the tip of his tongue to spill his latest secret. He had even come as far as to say “John…” in an absolutely pathetic voice, but then screaming interrupted him.

“Stay down,” John said as Sherlock struggled to sit up.

“Oi! Get a room, you poofs!” the cabbie suddenly burst out, looking over his shoulder, seeing Sherlock’s head flop back onto John’s lap.

“Seriously, what is wrong with you people?” John retorted. “Sherlock, that was a rhetorical question, do NOT answer!” he swiftly added.

John looked out the window, trying to figure out where the screaming came from. He saw the paparazzi scattering like cockroaches when the kitchen light was turned on but he didn’t know what caused the mass exodus. Only until enough had fled could he see Gladstone in an absolute frenzy, snarling and barking, baring his teeth as he paced frantically back and forth, snapping his jaws at any fool trying to get close. The only thing keeping him from chasing the paparazzi down was the leash Violet had him on. No one attempted to take any pictures. They were more concerned with getting away from the madwoman and her violent dog.

When the last of the filthy pap’s had fled, Violet gave some sort of command to the dog and immediately he calmed down, stopped straining at the leash. He walked quite companionably alongside Violet to the cab. She opened the cab door. “Problem solved,” she said, in her “Violet Smith” voice, pushing down the hood that hid her face.

“This ride’s on me,” the cabbie said, eyeing the dog nervously, even though Gladstone sat on his haunches and wagged his tail like a good boy.

“Oh thank you, you’re too kind,” Violet Smith gushed, reaching in to help John get Sherlock out of the cab. “Have a lovely evening,” she told the cabbie, giving Gladstone’s leash a gentle tug so he would follow her back to Baker Street.

“That,” John said to Violet once they were all safely inside and had deposited Sherlock on the sofa “Was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Next time,” Sherlock said, sitting up and shedding his coat and dress jacket. “Let the dog off his leash.”

“Why the German though?” John asked, sitting next to Sherlock, pulling the shirt collar down for a better look. “Is it so you don’t accidentally say something in English that’s actually a command to kill or something?”

“No,” Violet Hunter said. “He’s a German police dog. He was born in Germany and trained in Germany so all the commands he knows are German,” she leaned down and scratched his ears. “Who’s a good boy, hm? Who’s my good boy?” she crooned.

“Make her stop,” Sherlock pleaded to John.

“Why isn’t he still a German police dog?” John asked, more for Sherlock’s sake than anything.

“Ahhh… you know how police dogs are trained to “bark and hold” when they pin a suspect?”

“Yeah?”

“Gladstone doesn’t ‘hold’. He goes straight to ‘bite’.”

“Ah,” John eyed the dog with new respect.

“Again,” Sherlock said “Next time just let him off the leash when the paparazzi come.”

“Don’t tempt me. And what the hell is going on here?” she pointed at Sherlock’s neck.  

John briefly explained as Sherlock resolutely sat on his hands and bit his lips. “Have you been taking the medication I prescribed you?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, “Haven’t had time to stop at the chemist to pick it up. Working…”

“Oh for the love of…” John said. “Right, we’re just going to have to make do with the salve, is it still in the medicine cabinet in your bathroom?” Sherlock nodded.

When John disappeared through Sherlock’s bedroom to go into the master bath, Violet turned to Sherlock “Did you break out last night too, when Kitty Riley ambushed us?”

“Don’t,” he growled “Worry John any more than necessary, I hate it when he fusses over me.”

Violet opened her mouth but John came out with the small tube of ointment as well as a bottle of ibuprofen. “I’ll bring your medication, along with some more ointment but here, take three of these now, it will help with the swelling,” he said, tossing the ibuprofen at Sherlock.

As Sherlock reluctantly dry-swallowed the pills, Violet asked “Isn’t Mary going to be upset with you coming home late, again?”

John shook his head. “Mary’s out with friends. She decided to go see a film with them tonight.”  

“Sounds fun,” Violet sat in “John’s chair” as she watched him administer the salve to the angry welts on Sherlock’s neck and shoulder while Sherlock squirmed under John’s touch.

“Sounds dreadful,” Sherlock sniped. “Probably some insipid romantic comedy that Mary has zero interest in watching but got roped into it because her friends insisted she join them.”

“Probably,” John said absently. “Right, so after I’m done with this, I’m placing an order down at Speedy’s, it’s fast, close, cheap and the only thing still open in this neighborhood on a Sunday. Then I’m going home and we’ll sort this Rouge… whatever out tomorrow, yes? We are all too tired to think properly, yes, including you Sherlock,” John said sternly when Sherlock snorted in disagreement and jerked away from John’s hand.  

John stood up and screwed the lid back on the tube of salve. “It’s been a dreadful day. We’re at each other’s throats right now. Let’s just take tonight to refuel, recharge and then tomorrow look at all the evidence with fresh eyes, OK?”

Violet slouched in John’s chair, visibly relaxing for the first time all day. Gladstone padded over and rested his head in her lap. “What do they have at Speedy?” she scratched the dog’s ears.

“Standard café fare, really,” John said “And Sherlock, I’m ordering you soup and you will eat it, even if I have to sit on you, hold your nose shut and pour it down your throat when you finally open your mouth for a breath.”

“Thanks for that mental image,” Violet said under her breath.

“Can you be useful and make tea?” Sherlock snapped at her. “Seeing that I’m sheltering you, feeding you and saving your life at my great inconvenience.”

“Oh well, since you asked me SO nicely,” Violet spat back at him, bolting upright. “Yes, Master, let me just jump up right now to obey your every command. Do you want me to rub your feet while I’m at it?”

“No, but if you could cut out your tongue, that would be greatly appreciated. There’s a machete in the kitchen, next to the steak knives.”

“WHY DO YOU HAVE A MACHETE?”

“Stop,” John held his hands up. “Both of you. Stop it.”

“But we’re just having a lover’s tiff,” Violet said saccharinely. “By the way, thanks a lot for creating the worst fucking cover story in the entire goddamn world!”  

“Yes, John, I simply cannot thank you enough either,” Sherlock spread the sarcasm on thick. “I just do not have words to descri-”

“I said stop it, both of you,” John furiously cut across Sherlock, in his “Captain Watson” voice. Both Sherlock and Violet immediately fell silent. “This is exactly what I am talking about. Sherlock, for someone who claims sentiment is folly you are certainly allowing emotion get the better of you right now,” Sherlock scowled and looked at his shoes, lips twisted into a frown. That didn’t stop John though: “I don’t know what upset you so badly at the morgue today but if you’re not going to talk to me about it, then at least get it under control. Stick it in a spare room in your mind palace or something and shut the door until you can deal with it. Properly instead of trying to delete it and pretend it never happened.”

“Mind palace?” Violet asked.

“And you,” John rounded on her. “I am sorry your friend is dead and all these terrible things keep happening to you, I really am. But it wouldn’t kill you to be a little grateful, would it now? He could have just turned you over to Mycroft and washed his hands of you, couldn’t he?”

Violet swallowed hard and also looked at the floor. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered, stroking Gladstone’s head. “I didn’t realize I was…”

“Exactly,” John said. “Neither one of you realized you both are behaving like utter brats. You both can be as angry at me as you want for inadvertently creating this cover story about you two being a couple, but guess what? It works. People actually believe you two are together.”

Sherlock and Violet looked at each other. “People are stupid,” Sherlock grumbled.

“So stupid,” Violet shook her head.

“Well, at least we all agree on something,” John sighed. “I’m going order food. I’m also going to fetch the food because during the time I’m gone, you two are going to hash things out so you can at least tolerate living together until we can get Violet safely back to America.”  

“Hash. Things. Out?” Sherlock said, nostrils flaring.

“Yeah,” John said, getting his mobile out. “Yell. Scream. Throw things. Don’t care. Sort This Out. Tonight. Because, if I remember correctly, when the banks open tomorrow morning, that wire transfer you told me Violet set up is going to go through, right?”

“Right,” Violet said faintly.

“So all hell is really going to break loose then,” John pulled up the telephone number for Speedy’s. “I really don’t give a damn if you two hate each other. Figure out a way to work together and live together without bickering like schoolchildren. Because you two may be in this for the long haul and I’m not going to sit and referee the pair of you every time we all end up working on a case. Now,” John turned to Violet “What would you like to order?”

Violet blinked. “I-I don’t really care. Whatever you get,”

“Fine,” John didn’t bother asking Sherlock, already knowing he was going to order the day’s soup. He rang Speedy’s and placed the order. “Right, I’m off,” he said after ending the call. “I mean it,” he said sternly. “Sort this out.” He marched out of the flat and slammed the door behind him so hard it didn’t actually close all the way, but bounced off the doorframe then slowly stopped, hanging halfway open.

“Mrs. Hudson is going to hate us,” Violet said.

“Sunday night is bingo night,” Sherlock said, lying down on the couch, closing his eyes “And suitable renters have not yet been found for 221A so no one is going to complain about doors slamming and some shouting. “ He closed his eyes, folded his hands

“OK,” Violet said. “Look, it’s not that I’m not grateful for your help, I’m just not used to people trying to help me. I’m used to people trying to kill me.”

Sherlock rolled his head around to face her. Opening one eye, he said “Oh. So we’re actually going to do this? This Sort-This-Out Thing?”

“Um yeah,” Violet said. “Otherwise John is going to kill us and make it look like an accident.”

“I thought my options were either eating or sleeping. I’m choosing sleep,” he rolled his head away from her, facing the ceiling and closing his eye.

Violet pursed her lips tight together. “John thinks he’s being sneaky,” she finally said, hoping to goad him (because she knew damn well he wasn’t going to sleep) “Because he doesn’t fully trust me and he thinks by leaving us alone you’ll deduct what I’m supposedly really up to. He thinks I’m Irene Adler 2.0 and I’m just here to screw with your head until I get what I want.”

“Don’t flatter yourself-” Sherlock didn’t move “-by comparing yourself to The Woman. She was extraordinary. Your predicament is an interesting one and becomes more fascinating with every passing day, but once resolved, what made you interesting will be no more and you will return to the United States as nothing more than an mediocre, boring woman.”

Violet shook her head, making a tut-tut-tut noise. “Really? You’re actually trying to lie to a profiler? That’s adorable.”

“What make you think I’m lying?”

“Your voice pitched down half an octave,” Violet said. “You did it on purpose because you know most people’s voices get higher when they lie. So you deliberately lower yours to throw people off,” she sprang out of her chair and crossed over to hover over Sherlock on the couch.  

Sherlock open his eyes. In the dim light of the lounge, the gold in his irises were more pronounced, making him look possessed “Well done, you made a lucky guess. How wonderful.”

“That wasn’t luck and you damn well know it,” she kicked the bottom of the sofa in frustration. As Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, his golden-green eyes slits, she taunted him “Come on, Great Detective. Show me what you’ve got. Deduce me.”

“You blame yourself for Carruthers’ death. Boring.”

Violet snorted, taking off her fake glasses. “That’s basic Freudian bullshit, you’re not even trying. You think you are so much better than the rest of us,” she started pacing the length of the couch back and forth, like a trapped tiger. “You put yourself on this high pedestal. No wonder you were such an easy target for Moriarty,” she stopped pacing to lean over him, her face inches from his, as if she was about to dip down to kiss him. “All he had to do was reach up and knock you down. And oh, how the mighty fall.”

“And who,” Sherlock fully sat up now as Violet pulled away from him. “Assisted him in my Fall? Who was paid to break into my home, multiple times, invaded my privacy in order to obtain information for Jim Moriarty to use against me? Use the ones closest to me to hurt me, drive me away from my home and my work?”

“What do you know about being driven away from your home and your work?” Violet exploded as Sherlock got to his feet. “You got to come back. You chose to leave. You chose to torment your loved ones for making them believe you were dead. And you chose to stay away for two years. You are so goddamned arrogant, you probably thought John stayed right here at Baker Street pinning for you all those years. But I can’t go back to my home whenever I feel like it! I can’t tell my friends and family I’m alive. And I chose to stop working for Moriarty when I realized the monster he really was and what he was trying to do and I tried to stop the Fall from happening in the first place.”

“Not,” Sherlock got into her face, the tip of his nose touching hers “Because you gave a damn about me or my friends. Guilt dictated your actions, not for any real consideration for my life or the lives of the closest to me.”

“You going to deduce me then deduce me,” Violet didn’t budge, acting as if she was not the slightest bit intimidated as he towered over her. “Come on Sherlock, you really want to do this, then let’s do this. Deduction versus profiling. You first.”  

“With pleasure,” Sherlock dragged out the two words, relieved to finally have an outlet for the hurt and hostility he had been carrying inside of him all afternoon since Molly’s little revelation.

“Bring it, you limey son-of-a-bitch,” Violet also welcomed a target for her grief and terror. Tired of Sherlock in her face, she placed her hands on his chest and shoved him away from her, hard.

Gladstone snarled. Sherlock took a step back away from Violet, but kept his eyes fixed on hers.

He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket down, stared down his nose at her and began:

“The ease you slip in and out of your “Miss Smith” persona indicates you learned how to become a chameleon at a very young age since your father was military and moved around base to base. Your quick anger at me when I called you fraud the first time we met was actually to mask your fear about how quickly I determined you were not what you seemed…

“It has always easy for you to fit in wherever you are but you never really belonged anywhere or to anyone. When we met you the first time at Carruthers’ firm, you were friendly enough but not completely approachable. Everything from your hair style to your clothing and cosmetic choices broadcasted the message you were competent and reliable but not very sociable, as witnessed by how people treated you in the office. They were polite, they deferred to you but you were not their friend. You obviously cared about their well-being and safety but had no interest in them beyond that. You do not care about their kids’ dance recitals or the parties they had attended. Since I noted you discouraged small talk amongst your employees, I knew you made sure they knew very little about you and your personal life. Not just because you were a disgraced FBI agent but because you have always purposely kept people at a distance as self-preservation. Left-over baggage from when you were an Army brat. After all, what is the point of getting to know someone, getting close, when you are only going to go away again? For example, since you plan on departing for America (the quicker the better, might I add), are you even interested in actually getting to know me or John?”

Sherlock started circling Violet. She looked fairly unimpressed so far. But she would be well-schooled in hiding her emotions, now wouldn’t she? Time to draw a little blood.

“As I believe I have stated earlier, you wrap your lies with truth. Your father was in the military and your mother did die in an automobile accident, as you had told John in that coffee shop in the City. Your mother’s death of course triggered your abandonment issues, quite possibly she was either on her way to pick you up from school or she was running some mundane housewifely errand and told you she would be right back? Of course she never came back or came to pick you up. Same difference, really. Your father, of course, was more of an idea than an actual presence in your life being in the military and all until that one day when the chaplain came to your door. You then knew your father was never coming back. This caused you to add another self-protective layer to your already reserved personality, a sense of duty, of purpose, to work, to keep busy in order to fill the void left by the people who left you behind.

“And yet, there was one constant, one person you could always count on. Your brother, the reporter your boss referred to, the one who worked for the New York Times. Michael? I believe was his name?” he asked innocently as he scanned her face.

Yes. There is was. The flinch. Such a small, barely perceptible twinge. Other people would have missed it, but Sherlock’s eyes had zeroed in on the slight tightening of her jaw. Good, he was on the right track.

He walked across the room and picked up a rag and his bow. “Michael was your only constant in an ever changing world. Every new town, every new school, your brother was at your side. You were the eldest, obviously, why else would you be so protective of him, the baby brother? You and Michael had always been a team, even when you two went your separate ways career ways, he to become a journalist and you to become an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation… did I get that right? I don’t usually pay much attention to what the acronyms of American government agencies really stand for as they so rarely pertain to me.”

He looked up from polishing his bow. Violet eyed him, lips pursed, trying to get one step ahead of him, to deduce what he was going to say next.

Excellent. Time to go for the kill.

“Since you two were a team, you scratched his back, he scratched yours. You gave him leads for his news stories; he gave you information as an anonymous source you would not have been able to legally obtain on your own. Of course, your collaboration is what got him killed when you enlisted his help to research the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase, which you are consumed with guilt over.” 

He looked up again just in time to see all the color drain from Violet’s face. Direct hit.

But he felt the need to twist the knife “As you very well should feel guilty about. As a layman, he would have no idea how dangerous this organization is, whereas you, the omnipotent federal agent, the all-knowing profiler,’ maliciously he dragged the word out, “Would have known this organization would stop at nothing in order to stay off the grid, off any news outlets or social media. You were afraid you weren’t going to have all the information you required before leaving for your fateful trip to London and so you enlisted your brother’s assistance. But that’s not what did him in, was it? Oh no. You made an enormous error of judgment. You told Bear your brother was not going to believe whatever story your government spun to hide the truth. In order to stop him from seeking you out, you contacted him.”

Violet’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s not a deduction, that’s a lucky guess.”

“While Bear and I played billiards last night, you watched us very intently while he told me your story of how you came to be here, trapped in London. However, when Bear to the part of his story when he distinctly told you not to contact Michael, you looked at your watch instead of your Smartphone to check the time.” Sherlock studied his bow “You checked a watch that doesn’t work. Hasn’t worked since we jumped into the Thames-”

“You pushed me into the Thames!”

He talked right over her “-to escape Mycroft’s lackeys. Why on earth would you keep a gold watch that doesn’t work? Sentimental reasons, of course. A present from Little Brother?” He tapped her wristwatch then with his bow. She took a staggering step away from him.

“Stop that,” she held her wrist in her hand, as if the touch of his bow had burned her.

“Birthday would be my guess, a significant one, probably your thirtieth. But yet you are such a practical woman, it makes me wonder why you would be so foolish to keep a piece of jewelry, even one that appears unobtrusive to the untrained eye, on your person that could potentially identify you as Violet Hunter instead of Violet Smith? Because you did get rid of it, you pawned it because you are a practical woman who needed the money to go into hiding. But somehow it was returned to you as a warning and as notification that Little Brother had indeed dug a little too deeply… his own grave perhaps?”

He noticed her balling her left hand into a fist to hide its trembling. Excellent.

“So no, my dear Agent Hunter, that was not a ‘lucky guess’. I knew in that instant, when you checked the time on a gold watch that did not work, you had contacted your brother, against your superior’s direct orders and now he was dead because you didn’t listen.”

He might as well as punched her in the face. “That’s not…”

“That’s what? That’s not how it happened?” He put his bow down. “Oh my dear dear Agent Hunter, then enlighten me. Tell me what really happened. Because from what I observed is your guilty conscience prevented you from looking at either Bear or myself at the pool hall when we discussed your brother-“

Visibly crumbling before his eyes, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “It’s a painful subj-”

“If your brother had survived, he probably would have published?” he interrupted gleefully. “Yes, of course he would have.  Front page spread in the almighty New York Times? A full-length novel perhaps? Pulitzer-prize winning material, I am sure. And you would not be standing in my lounge, no. You would be back in the States, reinstated into the FBI in good standing, a living legend to be sure. The fact that you are standing in my lounge proves your brother did not succeed and did not survive. It was your guilt over his death that drove your attempts to prevent my Fall, to clear my name afterwards, oh yes, I know about that. Bear told me the last time I saw him alive.”

“You were innocent,” Violet’s voice shook as two tears slid down her face. She wiped them away angrily with the back of her hand.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said, towering over her again. “You just wanted to stop feeling the weight of your sins holding you down. You wanted to be absolved. If you could save someone else’s little brother, you would be forgiven for getting yours killed.”

“No,” she shook her head, but the tears were free-flowing now. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said harshly, enjoying every stab of pain he administered to her. “How did he die, Violet? He was a reporter, a journalist, so he often entered dangerous situations.”

“OK, you can stop now,” she recoiled from him.

Sherlock advanced. “Embedded journalist perhaps? Iraq?”

“You’re guessing.”

“Your father died in the first Iraq war, it would be fitting if your brother covered the second one,” Sherlock said brutally. “At least that’s what the official story is, isn’t it? A cruel bookend. Like father, like son? But you know what really happened, don’t you? You know who really killed him, who tortured him, hurt him, made him beg for death and then granted that wish.” He reached out and firmly grabbed her chin, tilting her head up. “It was the same man who gave you this scar on your neck. He used a serrated knife on you.”

Gladstone growled again. “Stone, stoppen,” Violet could barely get the command out.

Sherlock could feel her tears running down her hands. “After he described what he did to your brother as well as killing your partner right in front of you, Jim Moriarty threatened to kill you if you didn’t give him the last pieces of information he needed to undo me.” He let her go of her face and wiped her tears off the back of his hand. 

Violet put her own hand to her throat, where the scar was, struggling to regain control.  “I tried to stop him…I swear, I tried to stall him…”

“Why? Because you cared so deeply about me? I repelled you, what did you call me? ‘A burn out’? ‘Useless’? What did it matter to you whether or not I was innocent? Not only did you want absolution, you wanted retribution. You wanted him dead more than I did.”

“Yes, OK, I did want those things, I did want Moriarty dead but you were also innocent. I couldn’t just stand by and let you be condemned,”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said in a clipped voice. “Especially since your actions indirectly caused me to end up on that rooftop.”

“I’m sorry, OK? What more do you want from me?” Even though tears turned her expertly applied eye-make into blackened mess, she still looked him right in the eyes. “You want me to jump off St. Bart’s, take a fall for you?”

Sherlock reached for her face again, this time gently cupping her chin, intently studying her eyes. “No. That is the last thing I want,” he said. “But answer me one last question.”

“What?” she shook from head to toe now, from rage and regret.

“Do you really want to continue this game or shall we just call me the victor now?” he smirked.

Violet jerked out of his hold. “You…. bastard.”

Sherlock shrugged, still smirking “I was right though, wasn’t I? All of it deducted from your body language, tone of voice and reactions to inflammatory remarks, remarks I made based off of previous deductions, which isn’t cheating.”

“Oh I didn’t know there were rules,” Violet furiously wiped the tears away from her face only succeeding in smudging her make-up more.

“You challenged me, I accepted. I’d be happy to text John now to tell him it’s safe to come up as we’ve Sorted This Out.”

“Oh no,” Violet said, coldly. “You won the round, not the battle.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. “Do your worst,” he dared her.

Violet smoothed back a curl that had worked its way free from her bun. “When are you going to admit your aversion to food isn’t because you think eating is a waste of time while working but because you’re anorexic due to childhood trauma?”

He blinked, startled. The first hit was a lethal one, painful too.

Mr. Holmes, she probably knows you better than you know yourself…

Still he found himself more curious than worried however. I may have underestimated her, he conceded to himself when she started to circle him. Doubtful but there’s a slight chance…

“Now, I’m not as fast as you when making observations, but I don’t have hyperacuity or an eidetic memory or a 194 IQ-”

How did she know about the hyperacuity? He hid his surprise, barely.

“-so my profiling is mostly from past research, but apparently that’s not cheating since you made your deductions from things you saw me do days ago… By the way, how crazy does that drive you, having one IQ point less than Big Brother?”

Sherlock smirked again “It doesn’t bother me as much as you would think.”

“No,” Violet said, her voice delicate, almost dainty. “No, you have so many other reasons to dislike Mycroft.” She stopped circling and stopped right in front of him. Crossing her arms and tilting her head slightly to the side, she asked “Was it the garden or the library?”

“Pardon?”

“Was,” Violet repeated herself slowly. “It the garden or the library?”

“I’m afraid I require you to elaborate.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“That’s what I thought,” Violet pounced on his pause. “I would offer to just declare me the winner of this round right now but since you basically eviscerated me over what I have done to my brother and to you, I’m not feeling very merciful right now. So,” she jutted her chin up. “Was it the garden or the library where the current Earl of Winchester… first made his acquaintance with you?”

I believe your doctor-blogger will kill Jack Woodley, you will kill the Earl and your brother will cover those deaths up. Then Violet will be finally free from the Rouge…

The flat became so silent the drip from the kitchen faucet was audible. Sherlock took a breath, tried to speak and found the powers of speech had completely deserted him.

This was turning out to be a very bad day indeed.

“I told you,” Violet said. “If I had given Moriarty everything I knew about you, you would have killed yourself for real. He would have made your life a living hell. He would have prolonged the torture, not giving you the satisfaction of death, even if you begged for it. But you’re not answering my question. Was it the garden or the-”

“It was outside,” Sherlock blurted out. “The first time.”

“The Earl enjoyed the chase more than the actual deed,” Violet said. “When his family visited yours, he would torment you relentlessly at meal times, letting you know what he had planned for the two of you later, sometimes even as far as reaching under the table-“

“That’s enough,” Sherlock commanded.  

She didn’t finish her thought but she didn’t stop giving her profile either. “The anorexia developed due to the sheer anxiety you experienced at meal times when the Earl and his parents came over. You learned to associate food with pain because, according to your childhood medical history, you often suffered from severe abdominal pains, resulting in vomiting after meals. Because of that, you would eat as little as possible and as infrequently as possible. The self-starvation carried over into adulthood because unfortunately people miss the signs of anorexia in men since it’s a condition suffered predominately by women.”

“I fast when I’m working…” Sherlock said defensively, angry with himself. Indeed, he had gravely underestimated Violet’s observational and research prowess, just as John had at the coffee shop. Just as countless others had as well he supposed…

He also misjudged the depths of her utter ruthlessness, even thought he had witnessed her leave an unconscious man to die in her flat before it exploded. Plus she callously set Jack Woodley up as a target for every mobster and gangster in Europe. Sentiment is a chemical defect of the losing side he thought wearily … so consumed I was by Molly’s… announcement, it had dulled my senses… plus the itching from these wretched hives has driven me to distraction… and I am a bit more tired these days than I care to admit…

“…and I eat when the work is done.”

“You starve yourself when you’re working,” Violet corrected him. “Then you binge when the case is over because you haven’t consumed any calories for days except for the cups of sugar with a splash of coffee and the occasional cookie Mrs. Hudson cons you into eating.” 

Violet’s face suddenly softened. The smeared eye make-up should have made her look demented but she only looked miserable, as if she had been caught out in a rainstorm without an umbrella.  “The Earl thought it was huge fun, terrifying you to the point where you couldn’t eat, couldn’t talk. He got off more on the mind-games than the actual rap-”

“Don’t-“

“Why?” Violet demanded as Sherlock turned his back on her, about to walk out of the room. “You didn’t spare me when you told me how I got my brother killed and I did. I did because I was scared, stupid and careless and I have to live with that for the rest of my life. I know Bear faced off with Jack Woodley last night, he sacrificed himself to protect me. That’s another death I have to live with, another death that’s my fault. The Earl is a card-carrying member of the Rouge, you know that now. You also know you weren’t the only boy he hurt. You were just one of the first.”

Unbeknownst to either Sherlock or Violet, John been standing out in the hallway, next to the half-open door during most of the horrifically destructive game the detective and the profiler played. Dueling with loaded pistols would have been less painful.  

“Oh God,” he had said softly, when he heard Violet ask specifically where the Earl first made his “acquaintance” with Sherlock. He never hurt so badly for someone before in his life.

He seriously considered bursting into the flat to put a stop to Violet’s profile but he didn’t want to stop listening either. Sherlock was his best friend, but he knew so little about him, really. Sherlock so rarely spoke of his past… well… the reasons why he didn’t all made sense now, didn’t it? He leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, continuing to listen as he clutched the plastic sacks of take-away from Speedy’s.

Why didn’t you tell me? He thought, half-angry, half-sad. One more damn secret.

John then heard Violet then plead “Help me stop him. I’m the only one left now. I can’t do this by myself and I can’t go back into deep underground like I originally planned.”

Sherlock said. “I knew you intended on violating the terms of Mycroft’s agreement by running.”

“I don’t believe anything your brother says. I believe in you. You’ve taken down other Rouge cells in other countries. Help me take out the Earl and Jack Woodley at least. Please…”

“Your case is and continues to be my top priority, Agent Hunter,” but he sounded so unlike himself, so subdued and wounded.

John finally was able to picture his friend as a child. Small. Thin. Frightened. Hurt.

Not good.

Sherlock, meanwhile, kept his back towards Violet, his eyes closed, his mind somewhere else...

Molly…

You would be an awful father…

Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. The Earl… the Rouge…

“You and Bear learned the dirty money being funneled through the firm was not from drug dealers after all,” Sherlock said “But human traffickers who sell mainly children.” 

What would the going price be for the offspring of the Great Consulting Detective?

“Bear confronted him. I told him not to because it showed our hand… but when he did force the issue, Jack told Bear this cock-and-bull story how it was just for the black-adoption market and nothing else. The kids were sold to wealthy Americans who couldn’t have their own children but could afford to buy them.”

“You didn’t believe it.”

 Violet shook her head. “That story reeked of bullshit it so I started digging and… well, that’s why Bear tried to stop the money laundering. Dirty money from drugs is one thing. Dirty money from selling kids to people like the Earl who just use them and throw them away… Bear couldn’t do it anymore and neither could I, even though it’s suicidal to cross these people.”

The idea of someone like the Earl near his child… buying his child…touching him…

“I do not want to ever speak of this again,” Sherlock said harshly, crossing his arms tightly against his chest. “My experience with him. It is a distraction from the work at hand.”

“OK, I get that but…. Look,” Violet took a step closer to Sherlock, then another. “I know my word is absolute shit right now. I honestly don’t want to pry into your personal life anymore, unless it directly affects me. Or the case so whatever set you off at the morgue today, that’s whatever and none of my business… but I might have to ask you about what happened to you as a kid because it involves the Earl and it involves the Rouge. I know I’m asking for a miracle here, but you have to trust me.”

Sherlock turned his head, looked at Violet over his shoulder. “Then you must reciprocate,” he said. “Quid pro quo. I need all the evidence you’ve collected over the years. Including the evidence that incriminates you.”

She looked pained but relented “OK. Quid pro quo it is. But there is something I still don’t understand though.”

“What?”

“Mycroft.”

“No one understands Mycroft.”

“No… it’s that… How could he just… let that happen to you? He knew what the Earl was doing and he did nothing. He told you not to go to your parents… if someone had been doing that to my brother… I just can’t… I don’t get it. ”

Sherlock looked away again but there was no self-pity in his voice. “Even at the tender age of fourteen, Mycroft was already more concerned about the Greater Good than about me.”

“That’s… so fucked up.”

“Indeed. And I believe, Agent Hunter, this round goes to you,” he said, indicating he was finished discussing the matter.

Violet got the hint. “I suppose we should text John and tell him it’s safe to come up.”

“No need. He’s been listening almost the entire time.” Sherlock raised his voice. “You can come in now, John but be advised I am in no mood to answer any questions tonight.”

John felt his face flush. With his toe, he nudged the door wide open. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking from Sherlock to Violet. “Didn’t mean to listen in, honestly.”

“It’s just as well,” Violet said. “I’m going to wash my face,” she tried wiping the smeared mascara and eyeliner off her face but only smudged it even more, making herself resemble a panda. “I’m sure I don’t look very pretty right now.” 

After Violet disappeared into Sherlock’s bedroom to use his bathroom, John stood awkwardly in the lounge as Sherlock made his way over to his violin stand. “Is it true…” he asked, nervous and heartbroken all at once “All of that, what she was saying?”

“I said quite clearly I was not in the mood for questions, did I not?”

“Yeah, but Sherlo-“

“Don’t,” Sherlock said gently, picking up his bow again.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me, treat me like I’m broken. Despite what you just recently overheard, I’m still the same person as I was when you left to pick up the take-away from Speedy’s,” he picked up the violin and placed it on his shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with me.”

There is something fundamentally wrong with me…

“One part is not the sum of the whole,” he said in a reassuring voice, hoping to soothe him. John’s brow and forehead wrinkled as they always did when he felt dreadfully troubled. That usually meant he was about to start fussing over him, which Sherlock abhorred. Honestly, John was worse than Mrs. Hudson at times. “Don’t let my past define who I am now. I don’t treat you like a crippled war veteran, do I?”

“No,” John said. “You just tricked me into walking without a cane, that’s all.”

Sherlock’s bedroom door opened. Violet had not only washed her face but freed her hair from the severe bun she had pulled it into this morning. Chestnut waves softened her freckled face. “John, I think we Sorted This Out,” she said quietly, leaning against the door jamb.

“Oh?” John asked as Sherlock started playing an unfamiliar waltz.

“I think,” Violet said, watching Sherlock “We both realized we are very capable of hurting the other very badly and it’s not really in our best interest to do that to each other.”

“Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock stopped playing. “An accurate deduction,” he murmured.

“Good,” John said, relieved. “Right then, well, I’ll have to reheat these, they unfortunately cooled while I was-“

“Eavesdropping,” Violet supplied as Sherlock started playing again.

“Waiting for you two to Sort Things Out,” he said as his mobile rang. “Can you take these?” He handed the bags to Violet and answered the call. “Mary, what is… calm down, calm down, I can’t understand you… what? When,” his voice became taut. Sherlock stopped playing again, studying his friend. “Alright, I’m on my way.” He ended the call. “I have to go.

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded.

“Is Mary OK?” Violet asked at the same time.

“Mary is fine,” John answered Violet first. “Our house was broken into,” he said to Sherlock.

“What?” Violet said while Sherlock asked “When?” as the same time.

“Dunno, but Mary needs me. I’m sorry, I’ve got go.”

“We’ll come with you,” Violet said as Sherlock put down his violin, heading to retrieve his coat.

“No,” John said. “Thank you, but no. You two have had enough for one day. I insist you stay put and don’t you dare follow me Sherlock, I mean it. If I need you, I will text you, but please, I’ll feel better if you both just stay here. Please.”

“Well, text him anyway,” Violet said. “No matter what, keep us in the loop.”

“Your old room is vacant if you and Mary need a place to stay tonight,” Sherlock added “Since Agent Hunter seems to prefer the sofa to a decent bed.”

“Right, thanks, that’s good of you Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. Violet,” he called out before he went out the door. “Make him eat something, please,” He shut the door, properly this time, without slamming it.

Violet looked at the plastic sacks then looked at Sherlock. “So am I going to have to sit on you, hold your nose shut and pour soup down your throat when you finally open your mouth for air or do you think you can choke some down for me so you don’t pass out from malnourishment?”

“Just tea, thanks,” Sherlock said, returning to his violin.

“Oh come on, really?”

“Only one miracle per day, Agent Hunter.”

+++

 

Although the official title of the chapter is "The Sum of the Whole", I will always affectionately refer to this chapter as the "Oh shit!" chapter. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Tiny Bit Sexy

John decided he was heartily tired of flashing police lights as the cab pulled up as close to his home as it possibly could. He paid and tipped the cabbie, then stood there for moment, scanning the crowd. Fortunately, there weren’t very many people about, just a few concerned neighbors and the police… which meant Anderson.

Fucking hell.

What, on God’s Green Earth, made Lestrade decide to reinstate that muppet?

So he figured out Sherlock was alive before anyone else had… big fucking deal… that didn’t make him a genius, that made him obsessed.

Regretting his decision telling Sherlock and Violet to stay behind at Baker Street, John saw Mary standing next to one of the “panda cars” and made a beeline to her. “Hey,” he said, lightly touching her elbow when he came up behind her “I’m here.”

Mary turned and rested her head on his shoulder “John. Thank God.” 

John gave her a proper hug and a kiss on the cheek “It’s all right, you’re all right, that’s all that matters. Stuff can be replaced. But what happened?”

“I don’t know, honestly. My girlfriends and I, well we were having such a good time chatting over coffee, they talked me into skipping shopping and going to a late show instead so we could keep visiting. Wish I hadn’t spent the money on the film, it was utter crap, an idiotic rom-com,” she groused. “Anyway, I went straight home from the cinema and as I was pulling up, I saw that the front door was wide open. I parked in the street and looked inside and saw that the lounge had been trashed. The neighbors had already called the police when I pulled up. So I stayed outside by the car.” 

John ran his hand down Mary’s hair. “That was the absolutely right thing to do. The intruder could have still been inside. I know, I know,” John sighed when he felt Mary give him an Oh please look “You can handle yourself, but still. I don’t like the idea of something hiding in our house waiting for you to be alone.”

“I did tell them about the strange text you got, the ‘I admire you’ text.”

“I told Greg too,” John nodded. “That reminds me, I need to drop my mobile off at NSY tomorrow so they can try and trace where it came from. Thank God I didn’t give it to Greg tonight otherwise I would have missed your call.”

“How much of this has to do with the case you and Sherlock are working on?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” John said. “We can’t rule that possibility out, but at the same time, I am a doctor. Unfortunately there are berks out there who break into doctors’ homes looking for prescription drugs. We don’t know. We need to let the police figure that out.”

Mary looked over John’s shoulder and said “Yes, dear, but that man over there? Introduced himself to me as Anderson? Is that the same Anderson who…?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” John sighed, not even needed to turn around.

“Maybe we should ask Sherlock to take a look-around tomorrow?”

“He’s already planning on it.”

“Will he bring his new… what did we decide on calling her since we decided ‘girlfriend’ was just too silly?”

“Assistant,” John reminded her, placing another kiss on her cheek. “I’m his blogger, she’s his assistant.”

“Ah, yes, right. Order has been restored to the universe,” she leaned against him as he cuddled her closer to him.

“Sherlock offered my old rooms to us, but I am going to assume you’d prefer a hotel?”

“Oh God yes, please,” Mary said. “Don’t know how you survived in that dump for two years.”

“It has its charms.”

“I’m sure, when there’s not a severed head in the refrigerator or pig intestines in the bathtub.”

“Remember, I only assumed those were pig intestines.”

As they enjoyed a small laugh at Sherlock’s expense, Anderson approached them “John, hey.”

“Anderson,” John said stiffly.  Donovan and Anderson handled the fallout from their roles in the Fall very very differently.  Donovan, furious and humiliated, only ramped up the vocal attacks on Sherlock whenever she saw him. She also now included John in those attacks as well. Before she had been somewhat decent to him but after she had been publically censured and shamed for her very grievous error of judgment, well all bets were now off.

Anderson, on the other hand, turned into a sniveling sycophantic weasel. Sherlock didn’t even use him as a verbal whipping boy anymore. He compared dressing down Anderson to “kicking a three-legged puppy into a gutter full of rushing rainwater… there isn’t any challenge and it’s just depressing to watch.”

John suddenly had a very unsettling vision of Sherlock trying to kick Gladstone. He quickly prayed to any Deity that may be listening to please keep Sherlock from performing any sort of experiment on that bloody hound. Ever.

Anderson pulled out a little notebook. “Good news is none of your major electronics are missing, your computers, your television and the like.”

Yes but someone could have downloaded everyone on my laptop and our desktop if they had enough time you twit, John stifled a sigh and rearranged his face into an expression of polite interest. Anderson, after all, was The One who pieced it together before anyone else that Sherlock had survived The Fall. He wasn’t completely stupid.

But he wasn’t a friend. 

“OK,” he said placidly. “Go on.”

“Looks like a basic smash-and-grab,” Anderson said apologetically. “Did either of you keep any good jewelry, cash lying about?”

“Why would we leave good jewelry and cash lying about?” Mary asked incredulously. “Anyway, I don’t own any fancy jewelry, just my engagement and wedding rings,” she held up her left hand. “And I never have cash on me. I use my bank card, which was also with me.”

“Credit cards?” Anderson asked.

Both John and Mary shook their heads. “We have one credit card,” John said. “For emergencies only. We keep it in a hidden safe built into the wall of my office.”

“What else is in that safe?” Anderson started taking notes.

“Personal documents. Birth certificates, marriage license, insurance policies,” And a few guns we’re legally not supposed to have, John thought. “I highly doubt the thieves found that safe.”

“Why is that?” Anderson sniffed.

“Because Sherlock installed it.” It had been a clever bit of carpentry too. Both Mary and John had been impressed how seamlessly the secret panel Sherlock built blended into the rest of the walls. Sherlock muttered something about it being a belated home-warming gift, but John strongly suspected Sherlock had been bored and just wanted to play with power tools.

It also made John very nervous because he still didn’t know where the drill and power saw had disappeared to when Sherlock had finished his project.

“Ah, OK, yeah my men didn’t say anything about finding a safe,” Anderson said nonplussed.

“What did the neighbors say?” John asked.

“Sorry?”

So this is how Sherlock feels like when contending with idiocy John felt his temples beginning to throb. “The neighbors,” John said slowly. “When you canvassed the neighborhood. I mean, this happened in broad daylight, someone must have seen something.”

“We’ve been asking about but so far, no one has provided any useful information,” Anderson said. “So far everyone has said they didn’t see anything. Just some kids playing football in the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did they seem scared when your people were asking them questions?” John asked. “As if they had been intimidated into saying they didn’t see anything?”

“If they did, that fact was not reported to me,” Anderson said stiffly.

“I can’t believe there wasn’t one person on this street that didn’t see anything,” Mary burst out. “This happened in broad daylight, like John said! Our next door neighbor is a nosy old widow who has nothing better to do than spy on the coming and goings off everyone on this street. And our neighbors who live right across the street usually have company over on Sundays. Usually for lunch and then they hang about until early evening.”

Mary knew this because on occasion she and John had been invited to join them for Sunday lunch and a chat. They were nice people with three very cute and very sweet kids, two boys divided by a girl. Sometimes the visits were enjoyable, sometimes they were tedious. It depended on how much sleep John had gotten before and if he had been working on an exceptionally difficult case with Sherlock, he usually begged off those visits. During the calm periods between cases, John did enjoy going over, bringing a bottle of wine, playing with the kids in the garden for a bit, spending time with people who weren’t anti-social geniuses.

Also, it felt nice being the smartest person in the room for once, he was ashamed to admit.  

But Mary was right. Those neighbors were always home on Sundays.

“Let’s ask,” John asked. “Mary, come on.”

“Now see here John,” Anderson said, not masking his annoyance. “There is no need to-“

“To do what?” John asked irritably. “To do your job? Everything you told me I already figured out for myself before you spoke. And I’m not magically turning into Sherlock Holmes either. It’s just common sense. Someone would have definitely noticed if strangers were carrying off our tellys. My laptop would be easy to nick, sure, but the front door was left wide open. That means someone interrupted whatever whoever was doing in our home. They got spooked and they scarpered. So don’t stand there, catching flies in your jaw and tell me no one saw anything.”

He hadn’t realized he was shouting until Mary took his hand and squeezed. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, but this has been a long day and I don’t like it that someone broke into our house and frightened my wife.” He squeezed her hand back and felt her lean against him.

“John, I understand this is a lot to take in at the mome-” Anderson started to say as Donovan came out of the house, peeling her gloves off.

Great, John thought, clenching his jaw. More good news. Should have sacked her as well as Anderson. How’n the hell did she only get by with a suspension?

“Hello John,” she said coolly when she approached them. Looking around she asked “Where is the Freak?”

John bristled but before he could say anything Mary said “Well, that’s not very polite, is it?”

John gave Donovan a filthy look, daring her to be foolish enough to insult his wife. Donovan however opted to be a bit more civil because she cleared her throat and said “Can either of you think of any reason why someone may break into your home?”

Mary shook her head. John said “Could be any reason from just a random junkie breaking into a known doctor’s house looking for drugs or a Sherlock-groupie deciding to rummage through my house looking for a spare deer-stalker.”

“Do you have any drugs worth stealing in your house?” Donovan asked.

Oh you’d love to call in a drugs bust at my house, wouldn’t you Sally? John felt his irritation rising even higher.  “Aspirin,” he said unhelpfully. “Mary and I are walking over to our neighbors to ask if they saw anything, care to join us?” he tugged on Mary’s hand and together they walked away from Donovan and Anderson without another word.

“I wasn’t frightened you know,” Mary whispered to John as they walked across the street.

“Oh I know,” John squeezed her hand again.

“And it’s always a tiny bit sexy when you get aggressive.”

“Oh, only a tiny bit sexy? I’m hurt,” John heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“Enormously sexy. Better?”

“Loads.”

Donovan meanwhile stalked behind John and Mary until she caught up to them. “At least let me do the questioning,” she snapped.

“Oh by all means,” John gestured with his hand for Donovan to go ahead of them.

They stood behind Donovan as she rang their neighbors’ doorbell.

The daughter, a child of about seven, answered the door and looked up at Donovan looming over her.

“Hello,” Donovan said kindly, showing the girl her badge. “Is your mummy or daddy home?”

The girl opened her mouth to scream then slammed the door in Donovan’s face.

“Well,” John said tartly, remembering how Donovan and Anderson got the bright idea Sherlock kidnapped the American ambassador’s children in the first place. “Since she screamed when she saw you, I guess that means you did it, doesn’t it? Be sure to put the aspirin back where you found it, would you?”

**

While Mary and John checked into the nearest reasonably priced hotel room for the night and Sherlock and Violet still tried to figure out how to peacefully coexist with each other after their tense confrontation earlier, Lestrade stood staring at the bombed building in the Financial District of the City.

It hadn’t been a huge bomb, the building still stood. But glass and steel littered the pavement below and there was a giant gaping ugly hole in the side of the building now, eight stories up. Engineers and architects had been called. They stood outside the police tape, looking at schematics and typing away on tablets and Smartphones, trying to determine how bad the structural damage was and if repairs were possible.

Lestrade only thought about the people he had lost on this job. Good people, doing their jobs, collecting evidence, processing the scene.

He couldn’t shake the thought that Sherlock, John and Sherlock’s new “friend” Miss Smith had been about to leave for this very building before he had called them to come to the morgue.

He also couldn’t shake the feeling that he had met Miss Smith somewhere before… she didn’t look familiar but something about her voice… he couldn’t place his finger on it, but there was something very familiar about her indeed... her voice… something about her voice…

Déjà vu.

He also doubted it was a coincidence Sherlock started stepping out with someone he met on a case and her boss winds up on a slab the next damn day after he arrived at Scotland Yard with his new… girlfriend? Ladyfriend? Assistant?

Lestrade ran his hand over his hair then rubbed his sore neck, a mess of tension-knots. No matter which way he looked at it, something was not adding up about this at all…

He sighed, looking up at the damaged building again. Sherlock was no fool, even if he wasn’t experienced with dating or dealing with women… or very good at dealing with people in general. He’d just have to trust the Great Detective knew what he was doing… that he really wasn’t over his head like John feared he was…

He supposed he was just shocked to see Sherlock with a woman because he always assumed he played for the Other Team… hell, he thought Sherlock and John had been an item for a bit. Or at the very least Sherlock had a slight crush on his flat mate since John had been… well, a bit of a player before he got together with Mary. Serves me right for leaping to conclusions.

At any rate, especially after today’s earlier conversation regarding this Consulting Criminal Organization, this Rouge… whatever… Lestrade had more important things to worry about.

When he was safely alone in his police car, Lestrade rang up Molly.

“Hello?”

“Hey, love,” he said warmly. “How are you feeling?”

He could feel Molly smiling on the other end “Oh, not bad considering. I haven’t been sick all day. I feel a bit woozy, but I’ve been keeping tea and crackers down.”

“That’s an improvement then, isn’t it?” Lestrade said encouragingly. “Listen, I do have a bit of upsetting news I need to tell you.”

“What?” her voice was instantly wary.

“There was a home invasion at John and Mary’s.”

“What? Oh my God, are they alright?” Molly sat up in alarm. She and Lestrade just had dinner at their place last Thursday.

“Fine, yes, John was at Baker Street and Mary had been out with friends when it happened. She had noticed the front door wide open and immediately called the police. They’re shaken up, of course, but they are OK. House is a complete mess though, completely trashed.”

“That’s horrible,” Molly said. “Do you reckon it’s just a stroke of bad luck or do you think it has to do with what we talked about today in the morgue?”

“I’ve worked too long at the Yard to believe in coincidences, which is why I’m ringing. Molly, I’m not really comfortable with you being on your own with a baby on the way on top of everything that’s going on. I would really feel better if you would at least consider moving in with me sooner than we planned. I know it looks bad, with my divorce only being finalized not so long ago and we just got properly back together a few weeks ago but-”

“OK,” Molly interrupted him.

“OK?” Lestrade said, feeling a stupid, happy grin spreading across his face. “OK, you’ll consider moving in with me?”

“No,” but Molly sounded equally delighted. “I mean, OK, I’ll move in with you, you stupid man. Were you going to come by tonight? I’m afraid I’m not going to be very exciting company. I might be too wiped out to talk details about moving in by the time you get here.”  

“I’ll stop by of course but we can talk in the morning before your doctor’s appointment. Is this the appointment when they do the ultrasound?” He sounded extremely excited, as if he was the natural father instead of the soon-to-be adoptive one.

“It’s a bit early for that,” Molly said, her hand resting on her belly, barely even a bump yet. “You don’t have to come with me, you know.”

“I want to,” he said simply.

Molly didn’t realize it was possible to fall deeper in love with someone until she heard him say those three words.

She tried to imagine the natural father being excited about a prenatal appointment and failed. She could actually instead hear him sneering “Boring” in her head.

But she had caught the flash of hurt in his eyes when she told him she wasn’t in love with him. And again when she told him she made it crystal clear she didn’t want him in an active parental role in the baby’s life and he wasn’t allowed to see the child if he was abusing drugs again.

You look sad when you think he’s not looking….

He still did. Only now, she knew why he looked like the weight of the world was on his thin shoulders when John wasn’t paying attention.

She wished she didn’t. It had been so much easier to worship the image than to know the man. Less terrifying too.

After she and Lestrade exchanged I love you’s and see you soon’s, Molly pulled her comforting old patchwork quilt up to her chest and reached for her mug of chamomile tea, now starting to cool. She tried to resume watching television, but her attention kept wandering. Finally, she gave up, switched the telly off with the remote and leaned back on her pillows as her old cat jumped onto the little sofa, purring as he made himself comfortable by her feet.

After she had gotten home (which was the size of a glorified rabbit hutch) she immediately changed into the most comfortable pair of pyjamas she owned. She then dragged her quilt and pillows out of her tiny bedroom to the sofa in her lounge (which was also small, but not quite as tiny as the bedroom), preparing to spend the night like an invalid in front of the telly with tea and soda crackers. The pregnancy nausea really had been dreadful. She really was genuinely surprised the smells of the hospital and the morgue didn’t set her off. Already exhausted by the little life growing inside her, today’s events sapped what remaining energy she had.

She admitted to herself it had gone better than she hoped, especially since she had not been prepared to tell him today. Today of all days, when he came with his new girlfriend… to identify the body of the girlfriend’s boss. So awkward.

But at least, thank God, he found someone, finally. He wouldn’t be so alone anymore. Molly constantly worried about that, especially after That Night. The catch, of course, was that he did not scare the poor woman off.

Molly decided it would be rude to start a pool to see how long Miss Smith would stick around.

And it had been alright, The Talk, which she had been completely dreading. She had practiced it many times in front of her bathroom mirror. Once she came to terms with her pending motherhood, she felt confident she made the correct decision by not allowing him to be involved in the baby’s life beyond being “Mummy’s good friend Sherlock”. Uncle Sherlock, maybe….  

Although the money he offered would help, immensely. She couldn’t deny that, even though she didn’t expect it and had been honest when she told him she didn’t want anything from him. She made good money, but she wasn’t rich by a long shot. Child care and education was expensive.

He pretty much behaved as she expected. No, better actually. He hadn’t been unkind about it at all. He could be so cold, so cruel sometimes. She had actually broken out in a light sweat when he first fell silent after her speech. She had steeled herself for a spiteful comment like just when I thought your intelligence couldn’t possibly be more lacking or oh just get rid of the thing or something along those lines. 

Like she told him, she couldn’t expect him to be something he was not.

But he had taken her news in stride, told her she made the right decision, told her again she counted, that funny old way of his letting her he valued her friendship. He had not ripped her heart to shreds, like he did at that highly unpleasant Christmas party years ago. She had wanted to die on the spot as he had dissected her present.

She wished she would have realized it was at that very party, when she had taken off her coat, when she had showed off her little black dress was when Lestrade had first noticed her, really noticed her. Lestrade wasn’t a great man, no. But he was a good man.

Greatness and goodness… could the two ever really be considered one in the same?

Molly’s mind drifted back to January… when the Great Detective hadn’t been at his greatest…

But to be fair, neither had she.

I know you were very, very high that night…

***

10 January 2015
Saturday night
10:47 PM

The intern from Pediatrics was lovely, big brown eyes and great hair… really great hair, the type that begged to have fingers run through it. He also had been paying attention to Molly all night at the wedding she went stag to… which was great for Molly’s sagging ego since she originally had planned on taking Lestrade with her.

But oh no, she just had to hop on the saddle of on her big moral high horse and break up with him at the end of last November because he still wasn’t bloody divorced yet. It didn’t matter to her he hadn’t lived with his wife in well over a year, had actually gotten his own place right before John and Mary’s wedding. Technically and legally he was still married so he was still committing adultery, which wasn’t right and she wasn’t OK with that…

Or so she thought, until she had left his flat and realized the magnitude of her mistake. Still she made herself continue walking, made herself wait until she was safely in her wee flat to bawl her eyes out and berate herself for her utter stupidity.  

So it was nice having this intern bringing her drinks, dancing with her, laughing with her, bringing her more drinks, telling her he had noticed her a long time ago. But her friend, that tall creepy bloke, the one people called “Zombie Holmes” because of his rise from the dead, had intimidated him from chatting her up properly. “It’s like his X-Raying me or something when he looks at me,” he had said.

The intern had said her dress was pretty, that she was pretty.   

He dropped heavy hints he would like to see how pretty she was without the dress… but Molly, as tipsy as she was, had retained enough of her wits to realize this would be a Terrible Idea. She learned the hard way what happened when you dated co-workers. They could turn out to be lunatic killers. Like Jim Moriarty.

As gently as she could, she let him down then said her goodbyes to the bride and groom (also friends from the hospital, the bride a physical therapist, the groom a nurse). Kisses and hugs all around then Molly left the party, not realizing just how very drunk she was until she was inside the cab. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick inside the cab. She also hoped no one would be rude enough to die tomorrow. She knew the impending hangover was going to be of epic proportions.

She fumbled around in her good handbag, looking for money when the cabbie pulled up in front of her building. She paid, told him to keep the change (without being completely sure she gave him enough) and staggered out, into the bitter January chill. She shivered, the cold sobering her up… slightly.

She made it more or less inside the building without incident. She kicked off her the high-heeled pumps that had been pinching her toes all night and walked barefooted down the hallway to her own little flat. She dug in her coat pocket for her keys, dropped them, sighed, bent down, retrieved them and unlocked her door.

Prison cells were larger than her new flat. The kitchen and lounge were combined in one central room. You had to go through her tiny bedroom to get to the bathroom, which didn’t even have a proper bathtub. Only a tiny shower that one person could barely fit in, a water-stained sink and a toilet. Molly was too embarrassed to admit she left the door open whenever she used her bathroom for whatever reason in order to avoid feeling desperately claustrophobic.  

But the rent was dead cheap and was within walking distance to St. Bart’s. After her engagement to Tom had fallen completely to bits, it had been necessary to find a smaller, more affordable flat.  However, the landlord let her paint the stark white walls a lovely shade of blue in the main room and a pretty springy green in the tiny bedroom. The windows were huge and lovely, letting in plenty of light, when the sun was actually out. There was an updated electric fireplace that kept the entire flat warm and toasty even when London was at its dampest and coldest. Plus, it allowed pets.

Her old tabby cat wound his way around her legs meowing as Molly turned the lights on in the main room. “Oh, alright, alright,” she said, dropping the heels next to the refrigerator. She opened the cupboard and retrieved a tin of cat food, opening it and dumping the foul-smelling slop it in the cat’s bowl. She did not bother measuring it out like she was supposed to because her kitty was getting dreadfully fat. As the cat proceeded to pig out, she stumbled towards her bedroom to change, stopping to turn the fireplace on. The flat felt a bit chilly.

Inside her bedroom, she shrugged off her good coat and let it lay there in a heap. That was one of the nice things of not having flat-mates; she didn’t have to pick up after herself if she didn’t feel like it. She reached underneath the skirts of her dress and pulled off the tights that had been constricting her all night, nearly falling on her backside as she did so. The tights had also been a deciding factor in her choice to go home instead of going with the intern. They were dreadfully unflattering as they basically acted as a modern-day girdle. She tossed them towards the clothes hamper and missed.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror that hung on her door before she started to take her dress off. She had felt really pretty tonight, in the hunter-green dress she had bought ages ago, planning on stunning Lestrade with it. She so rarely had opportunities to dress up. Mostly she wore baggy lab coats over comfortable clothes or scrubs. The homely pathologist.

She swung her hips from side to side, feeling the silk-like fabric swishing around her thighs and knees as she ran her hands up and down the long sleeves of the dress. It had been fun dancing with the intern, letting him twirl her around the dance floor. Great hair and a good dancer and he worked with kids… Why did I decide to be practical?

Because in her heart, she knew she would have preferred a clumsy slow dance with Lestrade, her head against his chest, her arms around his neck. Like they had swayed together at John and Mary’s wedding reception, when he had politely asked her fiancé (ex-fiancé, Molly reminded herself) if he may cut in. And he had been so kind… letting her cry on his shoulder when she had broken up with Tom, had realized she had been duped by another heartless bastard… again…

Then the kindness turned into friendship and the friendship turned into … well… that.

She rolled her eyes, annoyed with herself for torpedoing a perfectly lovely enough with feelings and reached up to un-do the button behind her neck. She had to practically become a contortionist this afternoon to do up the zip and top button as they were both in the back of the dress. (She hadn’t considered this to be a problem when she bought the dress as she had thought Lestrade would be doing up the zip at the beginning of the evening, then doing it down at the end of the evening…) She toyed with the idea of just sleeping in the damn thing instead of messing with it tonight but then her doorbell chimed.

She dropped her arms, whipping her head around. Her hair, free of its usual ponytail, fanned around dramatically as she did so, but there was no one around to appreciate the effect. She padded out of her bedroom to the front (and only) door. Who on earth would be ringing her doorbell at this hour? Did the Intern follow her home?

“Who is it?” she asked. She was drunk, but not stupid. And the buzz was starting to wear off anyway. Or so she told herself.

“Molly, open the door.”

She knew That Voice from anywhere. She undid the chain-lock and the dead bolt. “Sherlock? Everything alright?” she rubbed her eyes, already deciding if he wanted her to open the morgue or lab at this hour so he could perform one of his experiments, she was going to push him off the roof of St. Bart’s. For real this time.

“Yes, of course, I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be alright, everything is alright, it’s a brand new year and the future lies dazzling bright ahead of us. But the real question is, Molly Hooper, the real question is are you alright, as I observed you staggering from the cab to your flat and as you’re in an expensive party dress you clearly bought on off of a clearance rack in a high-end store you normally would not shop at and you smell of second-rate wine, which is going to give you blistering headache in the morning, the real question, I repeat, is indeed are you alright?” he rattled off as he barged into her flat, the Belstaff flapping behind him.

“I had a bit to drink at a wedding party I was at, but I came home because I’m tired, what are you doing here?” she shut the door behind him as she watched perplexed as he roamed through her flat, investigating, looking, searching, touching everything.

“Oh I had been at St. Bart’s, triple homicide, sounded promising to begin with; the police were just convinced it was cyanide poisoning. But the clod they hired to supervise the autopsies in your absence is a complete dunce; he completely missed the slivers of raw fish and rice between all three victims’ teeth upon the initial examination. I immediately told them the true cause of death, but they insisted on a full autopsy anyway, which the examination of the stomach contents revealed that I was right as always. All three of the victims had consumed massive quantities of sushi. Tainted sushi; it wasn’t cyanide poisoning at all, it was mercury poisoning. Boring. Dull. Stupid. They weren’t murdered at all. They poisoned themselves by being gluttons, the imbeciles. Although I feel we should find a way to thank them for removing their DNA from the gene pool. Anyway, I didn’t want the entire night to be a complete waste so I thought I would stop by and see how you were since I saw on the schedule posted in the morgue you were on call for tomorrow but you weren’t working tonight so I deduced you might have been arriving home from some sort of tedious social function right about now.”

The words were right, it was his usual diatribe dismissing all the mere mortals who lacked his intellectual skills, but the tone was completely wrong. He sounded happy, as if he had just won the lottery pools. He also was talking a mile a minute, without taking a breath. He also kept prowling about, like he absolutely could not keep still, picking up a pen, examining it, setting it down. Paged through a book then a magazine, dropping both to the floor when he noticed a knickknack on a shelf. Darted over to examine it like was the Hope Diamond.   

When he turned around, Molly saw his pupils were still completely dilated despite the bright overhead lights shining in the main room. Oh my God, is he high? Yes. Yes indeed he is bloody high! She thought as hot anger bubbled in her stomach. It’s a damned danger night.

Wonderful. Just what she bloody needed right now.

Her hand itched to strike him across the face multiple times. But slapping him right now wouldn’t do a bit of good either, dammit. 

“Well,” she said, unsure what to do. Her mind wasn’t moving as quickly as she would have liked. She felt fairly certain he was not telling her the full truth about being at St. Bart’s. She also realized it would not be wise to allow him to wander the streets of London when he was like… like…. this. “Well, that’s nice you stopped by,” she said lamely. “I was going to put the kettle on, would you like a cuppa?” she asked while wondering if she should call John.

She decided against it. Mary had just been released from hospital only a week ago. It had been more like being ripped apart than giving birth for poor Mary. If that hadn’t been tragic enough, the baby, the tiny little girl slipped out of this world before she ever had a chance to enjoy it.

So calling John was a definite no. Which begged the question, who else could have called for assistance? 

Molly barely knew Sherlock’s older brother, but from what she heard, she doubted he would be very sympathetic to this situation. Calling Lestrade would put him in an impossible situation because technically, he should arrest Sherlock for being under the influence of narcotics. She couldn’t do that to either Sherlock or Greg. Mrs. Hudson, well, she would say to call John.

No, she was completely on her own.

Her mind scrambled as she tried to recall from her medical school days the effects of drug abuse on a living person (She knew well enough what the user’s brain, heart and lungs looked like post-mortem). Tried to remember so she’d know what to expect what was next. The high, the euphoria, the paranoia, the agitation, the inevitable crash, then withdrawal she thought as Sherlock told her that a cup of tea would be just lovely and oh by the way, did you know that all teas come from the same plant, the Camellia sinensis it’s called and it’s how it’s fermented is how it’s determined whether or not it’s a black tea, green tea, oolong tea blah blah blah… Molly stifled a yawn as she forgotten how the things Sherlock thought were fascinating could be… well… sometimes… boring.

At least he’s not talking about different types of cigarette ash.

Her alcohol-soaked brain made thinking difficult as she tried to determine just how high he was, when he would possibly come down and most important, what exactly was flowing through his veins right now. Cocaine, as animated as he was, it had to be cocaine. It had been his poison of choice in the past. That horrid woman, Kitty Riley had gleefully dug up all the dirt on Sherlock after his “death”, penning a particularly vile story about his struggle with addiction, a sleazy story detailing all his run-ins with the law, his overdoses and hospital stays, all his stints in rehabilitation and how his posh parents covered up all his sins. Molly had to fight with herself not to march over to that tabloid rag’s office and strangle the Little Miss Nosey Parker.

Good thing she never did really throttle Kitty Riley because Molly had also been called as a character witness at John’s libel case and then again at Sherlock’s. Molly also spitefully started the applauding and cheering when the verdicts and sentences for both trials crashed down upon the foul woman.

Unfortunately, she remembered glumly as the kettle boiled (and Sherlock would not shut up about the damn origins of tea) she knew there had been a sesame seed of truth in Riley’s story about Sherlock’s drug use, even before his “I-Got-High-For-A-Case” stunt he pulled last summer. When she had asked Lestrade how he met Sherlock, he had licked his lips, hemmed and hawed, trying to stall but then finally confided he had first met Sherlock when he arrested him at a drugs raid… but Lestrade had noticed something about him… a flicker of a fiery intelligence trying to burn through the druggy fog he had been enveloped in.

“Truth be told,” Lestrade had admitted “He’s nicer when he’s high. A lot nicer when he’s high. People actually like him when he’s high.”

But he will be awful when he crashes Molly knew as she poured tea for two as he continued to natter on, now off on a tangent about China while he examined each and every one of her DVDs, carefully reading the summaries on the back of cases, opening the case to examine the DVD itself, put it back, toss the case in a pile and go on to the next one. He will be irritable and fatigued and hungry and will be utterly nasty to anyone in his path.

And he’s destroying my flat she realized as she looked in dismay at the trail of destruction he was leaving behind him. He hadn’t broken anything yet but still what a mess he was making.

“… that is why white instead of black is a symbol of mourning for the Chinese culture,” Sherlock said, standing up, searching his pockets for something. He then pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Um, OK, no,” Molly set her cup down on the narrow counter that divided the Kitchen Area from the Lounge Area. She didn’t even have room for a proper table and chairs. “No. You can’t smoke in here.”

“Don’t be obstructive,” Sherlock tried to take a cigarette out of the packet. His fingers shook. “This block of flats doesn’t have a No Smoking ordinance.”

“Well, that’s not the point,” Molly floundered, as she tended to do when the malicious side of Sherlock appeared. When he finally got a cig out of the pack, into his mouth and was about to light up however, she found her courage “I said no, Sherlock and I really mean it. I see plenty of black shriveled lungs of people who did smoke. Plus it smells bad and, and…well, I just don’t like it. You want to stay, then put them away right this second. You want to smoke, you go on home then,” she crossed her arms.

Something dark and sinister crossed Sherlock’s face, making Molly regret her sharp words.

“Home,” he said, taking the cig out of his mouth, crushing it. “Home,” He stuffed the cigarettes packet and lighter back into his coat pocket. “Do you know what John said earlier today? About home? When we had a minor disagreement about the case we’re working on?” he narrowed his eyes at Molly, as if his row with John had been all her fault.

Oh dear, Molly thought, her heart starting to pound. Euphoria has left the building, ladies and gentlemen. Put your hands together for our next guests, Agitation and Aggression. But of course, of course it had to been a fight with John, a bad enough one causing Sherlock to tumble off the wagon. And it had to have been a really bad one if John actually lashed out at Sherlock.

Because she sincerely doubted the disagreement had been… minor.

“He said,” Sherlock shrugged off his beautiful coat and threw it on the sofa. He didn’t have his usual scarf or suit jacket on, just one of his tailored dress shirts and trousers. Molly noticed his shirt wasn’t tucked in. If he wasn’t high as a kite, he would have been freezing. “He said it would have been better if I had Never. Come. Back. At all.”

“Oh,” Molly breathed while thinking John how could you? She knew of course John was under more than his fair share of strain and worries these past few weeks but still… John had to have been pushed to the utter limit to say something like that. “He didn’t mean it, Sherlock, he’s going to call you tomorrow and say-“

“That he’s an idiot and he is soooo sorry, he lost his head because he was angry and was not thinking straight because he and the little missus are trying to work out some issues plus he’s still sad about losing the baby and he took it out on me so on and so forth. Dull,” he stomped up onto her coffee table and then onto her sofa, as if he was a little boy playing ‘The Floor is Lava’ game.  “”And do pour yourself a proper drink instead of continuing this farce of tea, Molly. You’ve looked at the wine glasses on your shelf no less than five times since I’m been here.”

Even as strung out as he was, he was still the Most Observant Man in the World.

“Could you not stand on my sofa then?” she squeaked, switching the kettle off.

He rolled his eyes and hopped down. “As you wish,” he snarled.

Oh good, he’s starting to come down, Molly thought despondently as she poured herself a generous glass of wine. Let the nastiness begin. Should have gone home with the intern…

“I wish,” she said, hating how her voice got high and breathless when anxiety hit her. “I wish you’d just tell me what happened.”

She meant what happened that caused tonight’s row with John.

That was not how Sherlock interpreted it. “Do you really?”

“Well, yes. Of course,” she said. “We’re friends. You can tell me things. I did keep one of your biggest secrets for two years,” she added lightly. “I think you can trust me. I won’t tell John,” still thinking she was going to hear what caused their argument.

His face looked like a death’s mark, pale and thin, eyes strange, bluish-gold. “Do I have your absolute word you will not tell John any of this?”

“Yes, of course, Sherlock. I promise.”   

“Then turn off those blinding lights and let me tell you a story, my dear Miss Hooper.”

Molly hesitated then complied. The bright overhead lights had been murdering her eyes anyway. She made her way to the sofa, the skirts of her dress billowing around her as she sat down next to Sherlock’s coat.

By the flickering orange light of the fireplace, Sherlock began to tell his story. Not the story that happened earlier that night, but rather the story of what happened after he had left Molly behind after the Fall. 

He talked for nearly two and a half hours. The more and more he talked, the more and more Molly wished he would stop. The story he told her about what he had done and what he had witnessed while he had been away were actually worse than she had ever imagined.

And he had liked it. He had liked his new life. Hearing that was one of the worst parts, but of course he would like living like that, toes on the edge, risking an even greater fall. He had no accountability, no conscience. No one nagged him about the differences between Good and Not Good. There was nothing but the Work, which always came first. It was fun.

In short, there were times he found himself dangerously close into turning into Jim Moriarty.

He told her about the first time he killed someone, actually took another person’s life with his own hand. Oh no, Charles Augustus Magnussen was not the first man he had killed.  

Oh what did it matter that this man, this first man he had murdered, had ambushed Sherlock, tried to kill him but only succeeded in getting a few good slashes and one puncture that wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t gotten infected? Sherlock still was the one who wrested the knife away from him and then drove it into his throat.

Molly turned her head away at this point in the story, covering her mouth with her hand, thinking she was going to be sick and not from too much drink.

He told Molly how he tried to convince himself not only would it be logical but it would be merciful to never go back to London. He knew returning would only cause more pain for everyone. He pretended time had stopped for all he left behind, but underneath it all, his arrogance, his affectation… he honestly hadn’t been sure if anyone would truly forgive him. He knew Molly could have lost her job for falsifying an autopsy, therefore ruining her career. Mycroft would never absolve him, especially since he had faked a second death just to slip his leash. Mrs. Hudson might just have a coronary and turn up on her toes if she saw him. And John…   

Yes it would have been the right thing to do to stay away. Find another place to call home.

But he couldn’t do it, he told her, pacing back and forth in front of the fire place. He told her he realized in towards the end, he was not Jim Moriarty. Oh, the irony, that Moriarty had been right, in the end of it all, Sherlock Holmes was ordinary. Ordinary and weak and sentimental and foolish and miserably lost and London was home.

He then recited, from memory, the title of every single poem Molly had posted on her Facebook page when she had been missing him extra on those days… even recited one of them from start to finish…

“’I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear…”’

He then told her he read John’s blog almost daily while he had been gone, chain-smoking on the days when there wasn’t a new entry. He admitted he actually had been in London a full year prior to his official return, but his nerve failed him and so delayed his Rise. But for about a week, he had hidden in plain sight, doing basic surveillance on John, making sure he was OK, making sure he hadn’t relapsed into his PTSD, making sure he hadn’t started limping again.

A pity he hadn’t checked in before John met Mary Morstan.

Molly assumed his sudden hysterical fit of giggles after he said that and the way he rubbed his chest where he had been shot was just a side effect of the cocaine.

When he recovered from the laughing fit, he hold her how he had slipped out of London again, convinced again he should just stay away.

But Mycroft had caught up with him at last in Serbia and ordered him to return to London, at least for their poor mother’s sake. “As if that woman really gave a damn in the first place,” Sherlock said, his back towards Molly, staring into the fireplace. “She was probably peeved my funeral forced her to reschedule one of her lectures at Oxford.”

So he stayed away, despite My-fucking-croft pursuing him like a bloodhound chasing down an escaped convict. He could feel himself coming apart at the seams, wanting to run away, far away, but still wanting to come back home… he was so tired, so tired and so unsure if anyone even wanted him back.

He did know going forward he no longer wanted anything to do with Mycroft. All the times his brother had sold him out, let down him down, oh not just major betrayals like spilling childhood stories to his bitterest enemy. No, little wounds. Molly had to fight not to weep as he told her how Mycroft had belittled him in front of important people. Telling tales about how he was a virgin and he was homosexual and how he had no friends… but then just expected him to cheerfully volunteer his services in the name of God and Country the minute Mycroft demanded it from him. To agree to do the heavy lifting for Mycroft, to conveniently forget Big Brother had just humiliated him. Sherlock had enough. Enough of being pulled into Mycroft’s power plays. Enough of being disappointed when he actually needed his elder brother and ending up being abandoned for the sake of the Greater Good.

However, the stars had aligned and after an unexpected trip to Sweden, finally, finally Sherlock possessed something, something Mycroft wanted very badly.

“What?” Molly could barely get that one little word out. It was the first time she had spoken since Sherlock started his story.

“Power,” he said, walking towards the armchair underneath one of the large windows Molly liked so well. The drapes had been drawn to keep out prying eyes. “That’s all that ever mattered to him. True power, not the window dressing. He prefers to be the trusted councilor not the King. All I needed was this small bit of insurance to make certain if Mycroft thought our relationship would continue has it had in the past,” he sank into the chair and ran a hand down his face. “He’ll learn it will not. What Big Brother doesn’t know is I have taken a page from his own playbook as I am keeping him completely in the dark. He has no idea whatsoever I have what he so desperately wants.  I almost hope he does tempt me into using it… but I know it is better for all if he just leaves me be, to hunt Moriarty on my terms, not his. He thinks I owe him for saving me from a prison sentence for killing that bastard Magnussen…”

Molly was too afraid to ask what this bit of insurance was so she left that alone. She also left Sherlock’s confession about murdering Magnussen alone as well. Her throat felt very dry indeed. The wine glass had been emptied ages ago.

“So… I came back. I believed I was safe, finally free from my domineering brother and what was left of Moriarty’s organization. I thought if I came back, it would now be easier to keep everyone out of harm's way if I was close instead of far away. I thought…” his voice gave out, worn out actually, from hours of talking. “… I thought John understood,” Sherlock leaned his head against the wall. “He said he did, he said he forgave me. I let him hit me in the face, let him be upset and angry and I thought we were past all of this, that it would be as it was. The two of us against the world... and it turns out,” his voice wavered, sounding almost childlike now. “We’re not. Past this, past the Fall. Turns out, I actually made a mistake, that I didn’t deduct John correctly, that he actually didn’t want me…” he trailed off.

Molly opened her mouth to speak, feeling her eyes burning with unshed tears, but then he sat up, hands gripping the arms of the chair.

“Oh Molly… these things… all these things I did to come home,” He lowered his head. “And in the end… it didn’t count for anything.” His story done, his tale told, he drew his knees up, resting his forehead on them as he wrapped his long arms around his legs.

Molly told herself sternly not to cry as she stood up. Even though her legs felt shaky, she made herself slowly walk the few steps from sofa to chair. She stood in front of him, unsure what to do. She couldn’t say the usual polite white lies like “It will be alright” because nothing what has happened to him the past few years was alright.   

She decided on honesty. “You’re home now,” she said, daring to smooth his black curls back. They were just as soft as she had imagined them to be. When he didn’t push her away, she grew bold and touched his knees, only with her fingertips, applying gentle pressure. He unwrapped his arms and lowered his legs. But he still wouldn’t look at her.

She reached down to cup his face, gently making him look up at her. His eyes were still dilated from the drugs. “You are home,” she told him again, firmly this time. “You are wanted.” A bolt of inspiration hit her “You count, Sherlock.” She ran her thumb across his cheekbone.

He pulled away from her hand, lowering his head again. But he reached out and clutched the folds of her skirt, pulling her to him. When she thought she couldn’t stand any nearer to him, he let go of her skirts and his arms, stiffly, awkwardly wrapped themselves around her waist, drawing her even closer to him, nestling his face against her abdomen.

Definitely was out of practice when it came to giving hugs, not that he was exactly the touchy-feely hugging type anyway.

If he wasn’t careful, she was going to end up in his lap.

A second too late, Molly realized that was exactly what he intended. She found herself wobbling when he leaned back into the chair, still holding on to her. She reached out for his shoulder to balance herself but he steadied her, both hands splayed on her hips. He looked up, scrutinizing her face with those eerie omniscient eyes of his. The skirts of her dress rustled as one of his hand slid down from her hip, skimmed over her backside to behind her thigh as he started pulling her closer to him still, started guiding her down onto the top of his lap...

“Ah… I-” she said, but faltered as she found herself sitting… no…kneeling across… no… oh all right straddling him right across his lap. Her skirts belled around both their legs.

She had taken her tights off when she had gotten home after the wedding. She hadn’t been wearing anything underneath them because they were those dreadfully constricting body shaping tights. Knickers would have been redundant and uncomfortable. The smooth fabric of his trousers felt silky and wonderful against her bare legs…

OhmyGod Molly thought as he buried his face in her shoulder and held her tight, breathing in her scent, one hand gliding up and down her back, the other sliding up her neck and into her loose hair. Yes…um, so… right. You need to be the adult and stop this because this doesn’t mean anything Molly Hooper she tried to have another stern talk with herself He is very high, he is very upset, you are drunk… oh God that feels good…he had kissed that sensitive little hollow in between the neck and shoulder and had continued to kiss her up her neck until he reached her earlobe, lightly licking it, just with the tip of his tongue, then blew on it gently.

“Sherlock… no, we can’t…this… this isn’t… um… ” she lost her train of thought when she felt his mouth on her throat again.

His breath on her skin sent shivers up and down Molly’s spine. Umm… yes… I mean, no! No Molly, this is not a good idea, he’s using you, just using you for a bit of comfort so tell him to stop, tell him to stop because this is… this is… he found and undid the button at the back of the dress and slowly pulled down the zip. Not all the way, just far enough so he could slide the dress off her shoulders and tug it down just enough so there was a little bit more bare skin for him to kiss and nip and tease and….

And she was reacting… digging her fingers into his shoulders and upper arms as he kissed her shoulders, her collarbone and the sides of her throat. Running her fingers through his hair, pressing her body as close to his as possible, reaching for his hand to place it on the side of her breast so he’d know it was OK to touch her there… adjusting her hips until she could feel through the soft material of his trousers that yes, she was sitting right on top of his…

Oh my…

Dammit stop this Molly!… this is a Terrible Terrible Idea her inner monologue spluttered on as his hands and lips continued to meander over highly sensitive parts of her body, tugging the bodice of her dress further down as pleasurable shivers ran up and down her entire being. It took you forever to stop fancying him and remember how he used to treat you before you became actual friends? Before you started standing up to him? He called you John more than one occasion for heaven’s sak- oh Jesus… she sucked in a breath. One of his hands had slipped underneath her skirts, had traveled up her thigh and had discovered she wore absolutely nothing underneath.

Now she was the one burying her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder, now she clutched the fabric of his shirt as his clever fingers moved inside her. She writhed against him and bit back either a moan or a scream, she wasn’t sure which. Actually if she had opened her mouth she was not entirely sure what kind of sound would have come out except it would have been absolutely primal.

“Molly?” his voice was ragged, guttural.

“Yeah?” she sounded winded as if she just finished running a marathon.

He reached up, lightly touched her face then ran his fingers through her long, loose hair.

“Kiss me.”

It wasn’t a request.

The hell with it.

He wasn’t the only one hurting and lonely here.

She nodded, cradled his face with both hands and ran her thumb over his mouth. She kissed him on those razor sharp cheekbones first though, then on those sensitive spots on his neck, teasing him. Only when she heard him softly and involuntarily moan did she finally kiss him on those full lips that drove the teenage girls and their mothers’ crazy (not to mention the lads who played for The Other Team). She slipped her tongue inside his mouth the first chance she got and he gladly reciprocated. Still kissing him, she reached down and started undoing the buttons of his shirt with indecent haste but she really didn’t care anymore as both of his hands were busy underneath her skirts now. She ran her own hands down his cool, smooth skin (although in the back of her mind she made a mental note to nag him about eating more… he really was almost too skinny again, he had lost so much weight after he had been shot. She could feel everything single rib bone…)

That was essentially her last coherent thought before sliding her hands down to his lap, still kissing any and every part of his body she could reach. She paid extra special attention to every scar she found, especially the horrid one, the bullet-hole in his chest. His hand ran over her hair again as she undid his belt and lowered the zip of his trousers just enough so she could slip her hand inside. She felt him shift, tense up and then relax as she massaged him, moving her hand up and down…

“Oh Christ,” he said thickly, leaning back in the chair, his shirt open, his head lolling back.

Molly, her hand still inside his trousers, kissed him on the mouth again, then throat, then flicked her tongue down his neck and across his chest, placing her lips gently on the bullet-scar again. Removing her hand at last, she slid off his lap, still kissing and licking as she went down. She knelt before him and spread his legs apart. Abruptly he jerked and pulled away from her when she started to tug at his trousers. “No,” he said, reaching down, cupping her elbows, lifting her up to eye level. “No. I don’t like that.”

“Oh…” Molly blinked, confused. What man didn’t like…that?

But he was kissing her again and again and he was a wonderful kisser, really. Together they stood up and he finished unzipping her dress and pulled it down from her body until it fell to the floor of its own accord. And she tugged on his shirt until it was off of him as well, fluttering behind him as she led him to the bed in her tiny bedroom.

At least, she knew he liked that.

***

15 March 2015
Molly Hooper’s residence
Sunday evening
9:49 PM

Molly shook herself out of her reverie. It was probably highly inappropriate to be thinking about her child’s conception in that much detail.

Still, it had been one of the best shags in her life… dammit.

He even had awoken her at dawn for a second round.

So much for the medical evidence stating cocaine caused men to lose stamina. But then, that was Sherlock. Always the exception to the rule. 

Not that Lestrade wasn’t talented in that area. No complaints there. No complaints either that he was back in her life. As a proper boyfriend, although it seemed so silly, calling a silver-haired man almost fifteen years her elder and once divorced a “boyfriend.”

Molly heaved a sigh, put the stone cold tea on the small side table next to her sofa and ran her hands down her belly again. She hadn’t even told her family yet, about the baby or reconnecting with Lestrade. She certainly wasn’t going to be able to hide it much longer, the baby at any rate. Maybe for another month or two, if she was lucky. Lestrade on the other hand…

Well, one thing at a time. Right now she needed to focus on trying to get enough rest and enough to eat, which was difficult with the nausea and the odd hours she kept at the hospital. Fortunately, there really wasn’t going to be much for her to pack up when it came time to officially move into Lestrade’s. His place was considerably larger than hers. There was even a spare unused room that could work for a nursery.

A nursery… Molly smiled dreamily, her hand making small protective circles around her belly. Even though the situation was most definitely far from ideal, she couldn’t stop smiling when she thought about what was happening inside of her… the embryo developing into a foetus, a tiny defenseless thing the size of a grape right now. Busy growing, growing heavier, growing longer, growing a heart…

Molly’s own heart felt very full. It wasn’t just the hormones making her eyes fill up with tears on a regular basis. Despite the unusual circumstances, she honestly felt extremely happy, elated actually. She always wanted to be a mum. And Lestrade will be a wonderful dad.

As for the natural father… well… one thing at a time.

Still, as she let her tired eyelids droop shut, she couldn’t help thinking about what kind of a person her baby would turn out to be… considering whose genes he would be inheriting and who would be the one actually raising him.

Molly wondered if her son would be a great man or a good one.

In her heart, she knew she carried a boy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: Enthusiastic Amateur

16 March 2015
John and Mary’s residence
Monday morning
10:45 AM

Both Mary and John took personal days, or in Mary’s case, a personal “night”.

John could feel Anna the Office Manager’s rage radiate through the telephone as she smoothly said it was no problem, she would find someone to cover his appointments, shame about the break-in. He knew he was only an incident or two away from a formal talking-to from his superior. To be perfectly honest, he really could care less. The surgery was mind-numbingly boring most days, except during the cold-and-flu season. Then he was too busy to notice the monotony. True, the surgery had sustained him during the Great Hiatus because he needed routine, it saved his life really. He had needed something to fill the empty gray days after The Fall. Now, after The Rise and the subsequent aftermath, the surgery felt more and more like a wearisome chore. The handsome, regular salary it provided however could not be ignored. 

Mary, on the other hand, genuinely loved her job and rarely took sick days so her supervisor had been far more accommodating. After their separation last summer, Mary had quietly given notice at the surgery she had worked at with John. She had gotten a job at St. Bart’s, of all places. She normally worked the midnight to noon shift three times a week in the A&E. But she had surprised herself by genuinely loving it. Now she saved lives, instead of taking them.

So she called and begged off her scheduled shift the previous night, the night of the break-in. But she really couldn’t bring herself to cancel tonight’s shift. It would truly inconvenience her co-workers and her supervisor to pick up her slack. 

Still, the past few days, the uneasiness between herself and John had worn her down and she admitted to John as they took a cab to the hotel she could do with a bit of peace and quiet. She surprised John by not asking what his earlier text had meant when she had asked him what was wrong.

Surprisingly, they both had crashed into dreamless sleep after they had gotten settled into the hotel room the night before. John thought the stress of the day would keep them both awake. After he had showered and changed into pyjamas though (finally taking off his Sunday suit, the suit and tie he had been wearing all day), he had found Mary fast asleep on the bed. Her shoes were still on. He tenderly took her shoes, tights and skirt off. Then he tucked her into bed properly, pulling the blankets over her, kissing her temple. Then he slid underneath the blankets, curled up next to her, spooning her protectively. Holding her close, listening to her soft inhale and exhale, he fell fast asleep only minutes later.

So both felt fairly refreshed when they returned to the scene of the crime, otherwise known as their home. “What a disaster,” Mary groaned, surveying the front room.

Not only was everything still in shambles from the break-in, now there was black fingerprint dust everywhere.

“Maybe we should just hire a cleaning company to take care of this,” John rubbed his finger on some of the power on the light switched. Then he rubbed his fingers together then tried to wipe the black powder off on his jeans. “Christ…”

“Can we afford it?” Mary did not pinch pennies but she did keep a sharp eye on them. “A cleaning service I mean?”

Before John could answer, the door bell chimed. “Morning,” he said to Sherlock and Violet when he answered the door, accompanied with Gladstone, thankfully on his leash. Sherlock grunted and brushed past John, Violet followed, pushing the hood of her loathed pink coat off her head, mouthing “Morning” back at John with a small smile, Gladstone padding behind her, very well-mannered indeed.

Swathed in his beloved Belstaff, Sherlock looked more or less like himself. His companion however was in full-blown “Miss Smith” mode: perfectly straightened and styled hair, flawless make-up, trendy (but completely fake) spectacles, polished boots, sharply creased trousers and of course, the black messenger bag.

But she also still wore that awful puffy pink coat from Mrs. Hudson. John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock hadn’t yet taken her somewhere to purchase a more flattering jacket out of pure spite. I wouldn’t put it past him, John mused as Sherlock prowled through his lounge.

“Should have let me come last night,” Sherlock grumbled, his eyes roaming over every inch of the lounge. “Before the idiot police contaminated the scene.” Unconsciously he reached down for Gladstone and absently scratched his ears when the dog wandered over.

“They didn’t take anything valuable,” John said. “Our computers are password protected of course, but that doesn’t mean shit to a skilled hacker. We’ve alerted the banks naturally. Identity theft and all that rubbish.”

As Sherlock made his usual sounds of irritation as he gave the lounge a brief once-over, Violet took off her gloves and extended her hand to Mary. “Mrs. Watson, I seem to be meeting all Sherlock’s friends under such dreadful circumstances. I’m Violet Smith and I apologize, I should have asked if I could have brought my dog inside…”

Yes, you really bloody should have asked before bringing that homicidal hound into my house, no matter how well trained you think he is John wanted to say, but Mary was already cooing over the beast. To his credit, Gladstone merely thumped his tail, ears perked up, pink tongue out. He almost looked like he was smiling, actually.

“Oh, but he’s a lovely dog and no matter, our house is all but destroyed anyway and please call me Mary,” she said as she shook Violet’s hand “It is really a pleasure to meet you, despite all of… this. Did the clothes fit?”

“Yes, thank you,” Violet said, the gratitude genuine even though her accent was not.

“Indeed thank you,” Sherlock’s voice droned somewhere below them. All three of them looked down to find Sherlock on his belly like a snake, looking under the sofa “Even though it has not deterred her from raiding my wardrobe.” 

Violet unzipped her awful pastel coat to show a very familiar aubergine man’s dress shirt. “It annoys him,” she whispered, hazel eyes glinting with mischief.

Mary smothered a giggle but John sighed So much for finding a way to live peacefully together… but to be fair, there had not been any venom injected in Sherlock’s comment. He had sounded more resigned to his fate rather than aggravated. John wondered if maybe Violet had taken the garment the Internet had dubbed “The Purple Shirt of Sex” just to take the piss out of him instead taking it of out of pique. Or as a mild form of revenge for not taking her somewhere to purchase a proper coat instead of the puffy monstrosity she inherited from Mrs. Hudson. Anything was possible at this point…

Meanwhile Sherlock had nimbly gotten to his feet and disappeared upstairs, Gladstone at his heels. “Are you a detective too?” Mary asked as Violet’s eyes flicked over the bookshelves as Sherlock stomped around upstairs.

“Enthusiastic amateur,” Violet lied easily. John fought the urge to frown. He must not forget what an accomplished actress this woman was and the necessity of a very overdue chat with her. She may have won Sherlock over, despite their excruciating altercation last night, or maybe because of it… again anything was possible.

John also hated himself for liking her as well… I do, dammit, I really do like her, this arrogant, vicious, conniving American woman… but still, he could not cope with another Irene Adler on his hands. He absolutely could not cope with a Sherlock shattered by an Irene Adler clone either.

“Sherlock is showing me the ropes… John, Mary,” Violet pointed, but did not touch “Were these books always here? And were they always upside down?”

From upstairs a deep voice called out “No and no…”

“Wasn’t asking you,” Violet called back, rolling her eyes.

John and Mary flanked Violet, staring at the three books upside on the shelf.

Moby Dick. Lolita. Don Quixote. The Great Gatsby.

“Mary, do you have paper sacks or plastic freezer baggies?” Violet murmured, pulling her gloves back on.

“Yes, of course,” Mary’s face paled but her voice stayed steady “Be back in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Violet said softly, taking out her Smartphone and taking a picture. Once Mary left the room, Violet asked John “How did The Met miss this?” carefully maintaining her faux English accent.

“Anderson is lead forensics on this case,” John explained.

“He was the one that-?”

“Yeah.”

Violet only rolled her eyes and shook her head as she put her mobile back in her coat pocket. “These four books are all about obsession,” she murmured, gingerly she pulled The Great Gatsby of the shelf “None of them have a happy ending.”

“Should we be concerned about that?” John asked as Violet thumbed through the pages.

“I’m trying to decide if I should be concerned that one of these books is considered an American classic,” she whispered right before Mary re-entered the room with a paper sack.

“Hang on, what was that?” John asked, using his “Sherlock eyes” as Violet scrolled through the pages a second time, slower than she had before “In the beginning.”

Violet slowly started over, turned the pages until she got to Chapter Four. The word “Four” had been circled. In bold red ink.

Violet pursed her lips tightly together then she bit her lower lip. John could hear her thoughts as plainly as if she had spoken aloud: Shit…

“What?” John asked, reaching behind him for Mary’s hand. She slipped her free hand into John’s and sidled up next to him, closely.

“Dunno,” she lied again “Mary, the bag, please.”

“Of course,” Mary said, her voice not so steady now.

Violet put the book in the bag then reached for the next book, found “Chapter Four” of Lolita quickly. Again, the word “Four” had been circled in red.

Violet closed her eyes and with a shaking left hand, grabbed the other two books one after the other and hastily put them in the bag. “I think we’ll let the Expert take a look at these,” she turned to look at John and Mary, her face calm. If John hadn’t noticed her trembling hand, he would have thought she was perfectly fine.

“Mary,” Sherlock called from upstairs “A moment?”

Mary gave John a wide-eyed look. She didn’t like being left alone with The Great Detective, little wonder why. But John just smiled and tilted his head towards the stairs. One of those telepathic conversations close couples had. Mary squeezed his hand and went to answer Sherlock’s summons.

Once he knew Mary was safely out of earshot again, John asked, with more urgency than before “What? What does that mean? The circled word?”

“It means we’re in trouble,” Violet said “You said Mary has to work the night-shift tonight, right?”

“Yeah…” John said, stomach twisting. He and Mary had stopped at Scotland Yard before going back to their house so John could drop off his mobile then go pick up a loaner mobile from their service provider. He was suddenly very glad he had a chance to ask Lestrade if possible, to have someone actually physically keep an eye on Mary at all times instead of just increasing police presence in his neighborhood.

“Sure, no problem,” Lestrade had said “Got a young constable hungry for a promotion. Alex MacDonald**, dunno if you’ve met her or not. She’s always looking for opportunity to prove herself but,” he added hastily, realizing he made her sound like ambitious instead of competent: “She’s good, really good. I wouldn’t ask her to tail Mary if I didn’t believe in her.”

John wouldn’t have been surprised if this MacDonald was keeping an eye out on Molly as well.

“We’ll talk tonight at Baker Street,” Violet said, folding the bag shut then rolling it for good measure. “But, this… this is bad.”

“How bad?”

 “Like Mary-should-think-about-visiting-relatives-out-of-town bad.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing a bang-up job.”

 “No,” Violet shook her head. “I’m not because you’re not packing a suitcase and getting yourself and Mary the hell out of Londo-”

“John?” Sherlock called down again “Violet? Come see this.”

John and Violet exchanged puzzled looks then John said “This way,” and led Violet upstairs.

The narrow hallway was quite cramped with four people and a dog “This picture,” Sherlock pointed with a gloved hand at quite possibly the most hideous painting in existence hanging in the small space between the door to the guest room and the door to the bath room.

“Is dreadful,” John said. “Wedding gift. From Harry. We hid it up here. Looks like someone vomited beans and toast on canvas.”

“And it’s upside down,” Violet said quietly from behind John.

“How…” John looked at the painting again. Still looked like sick on canvas. He looked back at Violet “How can you tell?”

“I like museums,” she said with a shrug. “I like paintings. I was actually at The Tate a few weeks ago for a special exhibition on modern art. I recognize this piece… not saying it’s any good,” she amended hastily. ”Just saying I remember it. I do like the artist’s other work though.”

“Thank you for confirming my suspicions,” Sherlock took the hideous print off the wall, nearly clocking Mary in the process. “I also remembered you had two paintings by this same artist in the lounge of your flat.”

Only you would notice two paintings in a lounge full of assassins John thought.

“While I know enough to spot a counterfeit or to retrieve a stolen piece, art really is not my strong suit, especially appalling works such as this.”

“Ah, let’s examine this downstairs shall we?” John said but Sherlock ignored him, striding into the master bedroom.

“Sorry,” Violet mouthed to both John and Mary. Mary smiled, silently accepting the apology. John just stifled a sigh, decided the universe was testing him again and followed Sherlock into the bedroom. He was just glad there wasn’t any dirty laundry lying on the floor.

Sherlock had put the ugly print face-down (thank God) on the bed and was in the process of removing the picture from its frame. “Obviously, our scoundrels want us to come out and play,” he sounded as gleeful as a glutinous boy presented with two birthday cakes and was told he didn’t have to share. “They never intended to take anyth- oh,” his breath caught in his throat. He took a step away from the picture, as if he expected the picture to rise and attack him.

John, Mary and Violet crowded around the bed to take a look at what had shocked the Great Detective. “Jesus Christ,” John said hollowly.

Behind the ugly painting someone had taped a photograph of Jim Moriarty, one of his “Richard Brooks” headshots. Only there was stripe of yellow, spray-painted across his eyes.

Mary was not sure why exactly she felt so frightened. She certainly had been in worse situations, usually situations that involved guns pointed at her head. Nevertheless, she put her hands to her mouth and began to shake. John, like the good husband he stove to be, rushed to Mary’s side and put his arms around her, but he looked over her shoulder at his best friend.

Sherlock looked like someone had slapped him in the face. He stared at the hateful headshot.

“Sherlock?” Violet went to his side and gently tugged on his coat sleeve. “You OK?”

Sherlock blinked. “This… this is… fantastic. Bloody brilliant!” he swept Violet up in a very clumsy, very impromptu waltz in John and Mary’s bedroom. John and Mary stared incredulously as Sherlock ended his little happy dance by planting a kiss on Violet’s forehead then he majestically swept out of the room proclaiming “This is glorious. Better than two Christmases.”

Bewildered, Violet turned to John and Mary. Touching her forehead, she said “I don’t know what just happened either.”

“John?” Sherlock called from downstairs. “John, are you coming?”

John automatically took a step but Mary stopped him “No,” she gripped his wrist.

“Mary…” surprised, John could only stare at her. Usually she encouraged his adventures with Sherlock. Sometimes she even invited herself along. Ever since they lost their daughter though, she had become overly cautious. Cagy. Jumpy. “Sweetheart, I’m just going to canvass the neighborhood. Walk around the block.”

“Something’s not right,” Mary insisted. “I can feel it… it feels like a trap somehow.”

“Oh Mary, really, come on. It’s broad daylight out there.”   

“Why I don’t I go with Sherlock,” Violet said quickly. “If all it is just walking around the block. Surely I can do that. Do you mind keeping Gladstone here, though? Sometimes people get nervous when they see me walking him because he’s the same breed as most police dogs.”

And he IS a police dog, a former police dog John bit his tongue. Rache.

“Yes of course…err, your dog’s name is Gladstone, is it?” Mary asked.

“Ah, yes, I didn’t pick that out. Unfortunately he came with that name,” Violet said while thinking Closest I could come to Angelicanizing his German name and still have him answer me.

“Right. OK, so” John said to his wife. “Then I’ll find a cleaning service to take care of this mess and we’ll pack up to go stay at Baker Street, OK?”

“I don’t want to stay there,” Mary looked mulish. “I want to stay in my own home. Our home.”

“Mary, listen to me now,” John touched her face, running his thumb over her cheek “It honestly it might not be safe for us to stay here.”

“Do you honestly think Baker Street is safer?” Mary demanded. Flicking her eyes at Violet, she said lowly to John “Do you think I’d be comfortable staying with Sherlock?”

Well well well, the noble doctor doesn’t tell the good lady wife everything after all Violet kept her face composed. This means I don’t have to worry about him telling her who I really am… but there is some history between Mary and Sherlock… nothing good either… hmm... will have to do some digging later…

“Ah, I’ll leave you two then,” Violet sounded apologetic but she was unable to resist adding “To Sort Things Out,” while shooting John a saccharine smile when Mary wasn’t paying attention.

John scowled at Violet for throwing his own words back at him. “See you later then” was all he said though, proud of himself for being the bigger person.

“John?” Sherlock called again, impatient as usual. “Come along, the game is on.” When he saw Violet instead of John had joined him, he griped “You’re not John.”

“I can see why you charge those excessive rates for your mind-blowing detective work,” Violet said dryly. “John needs to speak to Mary in private and I need to talk to you alone as well,” she held the paper sack up. “We found something.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said. “The back garden,” he said, turning sharply on his heel and walking through the lounge towards the back of the house.

Violet, unfamiliar with the setup of John and Mary’s home, followed him through the small dining room and kitchen. Soon she found herself in John and Mary’s small but tidy little garden, or what her American mind called “a backyard.”

Looking around and then over her shoulder, Violet opened the paper sack and grabbed a random book. “Open it to Chapter Four,” she tossed him Don Quixote. “Tell me what you see.”

Sherlock found Chapter Four. His bushy black eyebrows rose when he saw the word “Four” circled in red. “The other books have been vandalized in the same manner?”

“I haven’t checked Moby Dick yet, but I think it’s safe to assume yes,” Violet dropped her English accent. Sherlock noticed she had been doing that more and more around him the more and more time she spent with him… interesting… does she trust me a bit more now?  

Even though her fake accent annoyed him greatly he said, “Miss Smith, I do believe it’s better to err on the side of caution, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” “Miss Smith” said faintly, shaking her head.

“Good girl,” Sherlock said under his breath. “You have behaved prudently and intelligently since this adventure began. Don’t stop now just because you’re trying to placate my sensibilities.”

Allowing herself a small smile at Sherlock’s strange idea of a compliment, Violet asked “What game are these bastards playing at now? To me, the break-in, the clues still feel like a red herring, to distract you.”

Earlier that morning, before they had departed Baker Street for the day, she had made coffee and toast for the both of them. He had immediately fed his toast to Gladstone but accepted coffee as he had yet another sleepless night. (Plus he had much rather take coffee from her than tea. Americans could never make a proper cup of tea to save their lives no matter how long they may have lived in the UK…) Over this odd little domestic scene Sherlock had filled her in regarding what had been discussed after she had fled in tears after identifying Robert Carson’s body as Robert Carruthers.

Unfinished business. Keep me occupied until they finish their work… then they will come to finish me.

He had naturally left out the part about Molly’s little… surprise since it didn’t pertain to Violet.

“I concur,” he said, closing his eyes, tilting his head up. The sun was out. It was promising to be a fine day. “The question is: what is the appropriate course of action to take?”

“If we take their bait, we could be walking right into a trap,” Violet said, hugging the bag to her. “If we don’t, then they might figure out we’re on to them. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”

“Unless,” Sherlock mused, “they have discovered the enormous wire transfers to Jack Woodley’s accounts already. We might be downgraded in their list of priorities.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for, but when I saw the books, I don’t know… that’s a bad sign.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, not liking it one bit John had been targeted. Mary too, he supposed as he unconsciously rubbed his chest where the bullet-scar was. And truth be told, he did like her well enough, despite everything. But his enemies knew John was his Achilles’ heel.

“John is trying to convince Mary to stay with us tonight,” Violet said “I think they should. I really don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

“Agreed, they should stay over,” Sherlock said absently. “I also think it is best we take their bait.”

“Of course you do,” Violet sighed.

“Are you carrying?”

“Of course,” Violet said. She had a gun in the back of her trousers, another one in her messenger bag and one of her knives inside her boot. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“Because John says it puts people at ease to ask obvious questions instead of making time-saving deductions. He said it’s polite.”

“How British,” Violet murmured.  “Well, OK, where do we start?”

Sherlock surveyed the garden. “One less observant than I would presume the perpetrators entered through the back but left through the front, and yet no one saw anything, or, to be more accurate, no one thinks saw anything, out of the ordinary. I do confess however that, yes, it would be very logical to assume they had been startled during a home invasion in process and bolted through the front door to escape, that would be the action of a common criminal and these are no common criminals.”

“If they would have just placed the clues and left, it might have been months before anyone noticed, years maybe. Or never at all,” Violet put the pieces together. “They wanted those clues to be found. By you. If they staged an interrupted home invasion, they knew that eventually John and Mary would have called you to investigate.” 

“And here I am,” Sherlock said, walking around the terrace house . Suddenly, he stopped and crouched down “Violet, look,” he took out his Smartphone so he could take pictures. Not for himself, of course, but for John and Lestrade.

 Violet put her fake eyeglasses on top of her head and bent over, looking to where Sherlock was pointing, down on the pavement, below the kitchen window. Barely perceptible. A strong wind would blow it away. But there they were, for now.

“Footprints,” Violet said.

“Small footprints,” Sherlock said, straightening up and examining the window. “And a small point of entry. A very small point of entry.“

“Shit,” Violet hissed. “Petit Rouge…”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, flipping his collar up, turning away from the window. “And now we know what their real work is, why they are desperate to keep me busy with a different case, to keep me busy with bombings and Americans so they can carry on in peace until the time comes to finish what Moriarty started.” He walked towards the fence gate and started examining it, “Yes, obvious, the lock was picked. John will need to up his security measures definitely.”

Violet was a step behind Sherlock in his deductions, but when she caught up, she said “Oh my God. How did The Met miss that? There are probably fingerprints on the glass.”

“Fingerprints and DNA are next to useless until they are already in the system,” Sherlock said, now picking the gate lock himself since he did not want to bother John for the key, especially since he (correctly) deduced John and Mary were having a heated discussion whether or not to it was safe to stay at their terrace house  (it wasn’t). “Most of the Petits would not be in any official system. Unless they were abducted, but most of them were abandoned.”

“Or sold,” Violet said through clenched teeth.  

“Leave the books and your bag, it is too cumbersome for our purposes and John will not be tempted to snoop,” Sherlock instructed “But put them inside somewhere where John will find them. I’ll text him that he needs to bring them both later tonight. And it’s not an option for either he or Mary to stay anywhere else but my flat. We’ll impress on Mary the gravity of the situation,” he started texting.

“She’ll probably file for divorce then,” Violet quipped.

“Or at least contemplate it,” Sherlock said in all seriousness.

**

Today the old man with the carefully groomed silver hair and trendy black spectacles decided he wanted an early lunch today and opted to dine out. He took a cab to one of his favorite restaurants, leaning heavily on his cane as he got out.

He really wasn’t lame, of course. Just Part of the Act.

Who was he? Just a harmless old man with a bad hip, of course.

He was alone in the restaurant except for a bored-looking hostess who brightened when he told her he would like a table, by the window, please. After the hostess left him at the table he wanted, he took off his scarlet scarf and warm, woolen coat, a variation of a certain Belstaff a certain detective favored.  He eased himself into a luxurious leather booth, next to the window, within clear sight of the door. He never liked his back towards the door.

He peeled off his gloves and when a pretty young blonde waitress came to take his drink order he informed her would like a strong cup of tea and a menu, please and thank you.

The tea was steaming hot and unsweetened, just how he liked it.

The current situation, he did not like. Not one little bit.

He sipped his tea and read his paperback book, an old favorite, waiting for the inevitable call.

His out-dated prepay mobile vibrated in his trouser pocket. He took it out and flipped it open “Yes?”

“That… that fucking bitch!”

“Mm,” the old man suppressed an eye roll. Honestly. Americans. “Elaborate, please.”

“She cleaned out all the accounts.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he took a sip of tea.

“She put all the money in MY account. MY private accounts in the Cayman Islands.”

He said the tea cup down in its saucer. That was an unexpected snag. “Can you not just transfer it back to the original accounts?”

“She changed my PIN,” Jack Woodley said through clenched teeth, pacing in his tiny bolt-hole. “She changed my security questions, she changed everything… she fucked me.”

“Indeed, but are you sure it is her?”

“Bear was smart, but he wasn’t as evil as that cunt,” Jack peered through the dirty curtains, to look out the dirty window pane. “He would have told her to just freeze the bank accounts so no one could access the money. But what she did… that’s just stone-cold.”

“Well,” the old man chuckled drily. “It appears I do owe you an apology. We did underestimate her after all… unless her new friend gave her the idea. Be sure to take that into consideration.”

“Oh, I have,” Jack let the filthy drapes fall back “Trust me. I have.”

If Jack could have had his way, he would have simply waited for the Great Detective at his precious little apartment on Baker Street and gouged his fucking eyes out. Then make him listen to the screams of his little boyfriend Watson as he hacked him to pieces with a meat cleaver.

As for Agent Hunter… stupid stupid bitch… he couldn’t wait until he was alone with her, his hands literally itched with anticipation.

“Also take into consideration,” the old man glanced up. The hostess and waitress were busy chatting about some film they wanted to see. “He is valuable. We need him. And her.”

Jack swallowed his rage. “I know, but the minute we don’t need him…”

“They are both yours to do with as you please.”

“Assuming I live long enough to see that day,” Jack knew full well his silvery head now had a price on it. But he also knew the old man, trusted him. He knew he wouldn’t let him down. “What’s the play?”

“I’ll text you,” the old man said, keeping his eyes on the hostess and waitress as he said “Goodbye” and rang off. 

“OK,” Jack said to the air, continuing to pace the tiny room. Is this what a prison cell feels like? Is this what the old saying the walls closing in means?

His phone vibrated. His lifeline.

He read the text:

The Saint comes at Sunset.
Burn upon notice. 

Jack sighed, feeling some of the weight left from his shoulders. Sunset meant Midnight. Saint meant Sebastian, as in Sebastian Moran who would fetch him at midnight. It was just up to him to stay alive until midnight. To hide for thirteen hours from every criminal element in London the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase might have done business with, everyone from True IRA to petty street punks selling weed to privileged university brats.

“Burn upon notice” rankled him because not only was it telling him to destroy this particular prepay mobile, he knew he was being removed from Phase II.

But it made sense, as he had (as he would have said in his old American life) “Been Made.”

He just hoped the Rouge would smooth things over with their now disgruntled business partners in time for him to join Phase III.

Unbeknownst to Jack Woodley, that would not be the case as the old man sighed heavily and sent one more text “Abt Ph 2. Ph 3 go in 14” before “accidentally” spilling tea over the mobile. It was very risky, speeding up the process, accelerating the time-tables. So many moving pieces… But with Jack compromised and Agent Hunter more lethal than anyone anticipated, well, waiting around for just the right moment to make the big move was no longer an option…

But he’d make sure Woodley had a front row seat for Holmes’ downfall. His final fall…

The old man also decided continuing with Phase II was far riskier than initiating Phase III. Holmes might have seen through the ruse if not by now then he would very soon. No more games for you Mr. Holmes…you have “been benched”, as the Americans would say…

Which means, Dr. Watson… it’s your turn to play…

Ah Jim, the old man thought with a sad smile as the apologetic waitress mopped up the mess. How you would have loved this…

**

Mycroft never had been and never would be a morning person. On days he could get away with it (such as days like today, when his earliest meeting was scheduled for two in the afternoon, Mycroft would sleep as late as he possibly could, then lounge in his dressing gown and slippers until the last possible moment, until he positively absolutely had to shower, shave and dress to go out into the world. It was another similarity he shared with his brother, but he would never admit that. Out loud.

Speaking of his idiot baby brother… Mycroft put his newspaper down and reached for his mobile. Sherlock had not called or texted once regarding his new charge. Not that Mycroft expected anything less from his brother. In fact, he was mildly impressed Sherlock had not appeared on any of the media outlets this morning, television, radio and otherwise.

The Twitter and Instagram pictures of him and the American jumping off the Millennium Bridge were unfortunate. On the bright side, his fans (Dear God, my brother has fans…) ate them up. As much as he detested the attention, his fame acted more of a shield than Sherlock realized…

On an even brighter note, thank God Mummy didn’t have social media otherwise she probably would have had gone into full heart failure if she had seen those pictures. One of these days I’m going to lock the two of them in a cell so they can sort things out Mycroft vowed as he rang his little brother. I can tolerate Sherlock’s vitriol toward me, but not towards Mummy, although, to be fair, she expected far too much from him… still does… he thought as he listened to Sherlock’s mobile ring, fully expecting it to go to voice mail.

“Hello, brother dearest, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. He would have preferred voice mail. Sherlock’s scathing voice could have melted Mycroft’s mobile. “You received my text message then? Regarding Agent Hunter?”

“I did, thank you for my new pet. I promise to feed her, water her and take her out for walks three times a day.”

In the background, Mycroft heard an indignant woman’s voice demand “Did you just really refer to me as a pet?”

Silently, he congratulated her on her British accent. Better than some of the so-called professionally trained American actors, really. Out loud he told his brother “The status reports were not a request, Sherlock.”

“When I have something worthwhile to report, you will learn of it.”

“How? On the telly the next time you’re invited to appear on Crimewatch?”

“I was leaning more towards skywriting, to be honest. It’s such a dying art-form.”

“Are you quite finished?” Mycroft wished he had a job he could call in ill to when he was having a bad day.

“I’m just getting warmed up,” Sherlock said sweetly. “We never did negotiate my fees.”

“Your… what?”

“John stressed to me the importance of being paid for my work.”

I may murder him myself yet… Mycroft gritted his teeth. Why does he have to be so obstreperous all the time?  “Sherlock, this is not a case given to you to solve for your amusement. This is a matter of national secur-“

“Oh rubbish,” Sherlock snorted. “You are only letting me keep her because you believe her presence in my life keeps me out of your way...”

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed two fingers to his forehead. So much for Anthea’s suggestion…

“… so when you tell me what you are truly up to, I’ll divulge any information I deduct from her that concerns you and the government you worship. Quid pro quo, big brother.”

In the background, Mycroft heard the American say… something… but he couldn’t quite make it out, but abruptly Sherlock inhaled sharply, then sighed loudly, obviously annoyed. Then he snapped “This conversation is over,” and rang off.  

Mycroft leaned back into his chair, reaching for the bottle of antacid tablets on the small table next to his comfortable leather chair. His stomach roiled uneasily. Cutting back on sugar and dairy was not helping his stomach settle down at all.

The last time Sherlock terminated a phone call without warning, he and the American had jumped into the Thames to avoid the police and MI-6 picking them up.

Now what is he up to? Mycroft fretted. Why can’t he understand I am looking out for his best interests as well, not just the interest of our country?

Well, Mycroft knew the answer to the second question, but as to the first question he asked himself, he legitimately had no idea.

He had every reason to be concerned though. Honestly he should have been more worried.

What Violet had said to Sherlock that Mycroft couldn’t hear was: “We have company.”

When Violet had said that, Sherlock immediately looked over his shoulder. He did not see anything other than the cookie-cutter terrace house  and the neatly manicured garden they were currently trespassing on… (Female, unmarried, childless, corporate middle management, overweight, lives alone, scratch that, has a dog, a Corgi, hate Corgis, useless creatures… he had quickly deducted when they entered this particular back garden…)

But he breathed in deeply, smelling something stale, foul and familiar… cigarettes.

To be more accurate, he smelled the particular odor of a chronic chain-smoker. Someone who was fond of the cheapest cigs available but wasn’t a fan of regular bathing.

And he had heard the branch snap the same time Violet did before she had said anything.

He sighed. Yes someone had been following them, as he had expected when he took their bait.

“This conversation is over,” he tersely told his brother, ringing off and sticking his mobile in his coat pocket as the fence gate slowly opened. “Good morning,” Sherlock’s voice sounded deceptively pleasant as three men entered the back garden.  

“’Mornin’,” the larger of the three said, apparently assuming the role of Fearless Leader.

All three of them possessed bulky, muscular bodies but one of them was quite short, shorter than Violet. Sherlock could easily tell by all three of their facial expressions they were already underestimating him Oh he’s a skinny bloke, ain’t he? We can take him…

True, he’s lost some kilos while recovering from the shooting and he was still having trouble gaining the weight back even nearly a year later. But his slender build had always been an asset rather than a hindrance. Even with his current weight loss, he was still much stronger than people thought.

As was the slim woman sidling up next to him. Plus she was armed to the eyeteeth.

He knew how they looked to them. Skinny bloke, supposedly barking mad. Skinny lady, in a girly pink coat. Weak, the both of them. These three obviously thought today’s task was an easy one. Their very body language betrayed their arrogance.

Violet pressed close to him, training her eyes on the three men. She did not tremble but Sherlock felt her body tensing as she put all her weight on her left foot, balancing on the ball of her right foot, preparing to attack if necessary. The three men didn’t even notice her body language. They dismissed her as a threat for the simple fact she was only a woman...

Hell hath no fury gentlemen, Sherlock thought as he asked “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company this morning?”

Fearless Leader held up his hands, trying to show he meant no harm. Even that betrayed his true intent. Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at his thickness. His hands were non-threatening, but his legs had assumed a fighting stance. He was ready to take them down.  

“Just wanna talk,” Fearless Leader lied.

“Then send your two friends away,” Sherlock said “I doubt they have anything of importance or interest to contribute to the conversation.”

The second man, the one Sherlock had smelled, pulled a pack of cheap cigarettes out of his coat pocket and extended it out, a peace offering. Sherlock, wearing three nicotine patches, wrinkled his nose and shook his head. The Chronic Smoker shrugged and lit up.

The third man (definitely shorter than Violet, possibly shorter than John even) leaned against the fence, sizing up Violet rather than Sherlock. Sherlock felt Violet press even closer against him. He found himself fighting off an absolutely ridiculous urge to put his arm around her, or even to just stand in front of her. She was perfectly capable of defending herself and would not appreciate either gesture.

“We’re not the negotiators,” the Short Man said. “We’re just… the transportation.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “Well, in that case, unfortunately we are indisposed for any type of negotiations at the moment, but if you send a request through my website, we can set up an appointment at a mutually agreed upon location and engage in a dialog at that time. Now if you excuse us, there is a case to investigate. Good day gentlemen,” he inclined his head regally, as if he was wise King Solomon dismissing his illiterate peasants.  

“That’s not going to work for us,” Fearless Leader said regretfully “Or our boss, actually.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” Sherlock said “Because I am interested in speaking with your superior. I think it would be a very interesting conversation, illuminating really… however, I do not feel speaking to your superior under duress would be very productive for either one of us. Really,” he scolded the three men lightly. “As entertaining as the staged break-in at my friend’s house was, I assure you all it was completely unnecessary. A waste of both mine and your superior’s time, I think?”

“You would’na come if he’d made an appointment,” the Short Man scoffed. “Appointments are normal, boring for you.” 

“Yes, but this is irksome,” Sherlock felt his patience fraying. “I have better things to do then trying to think of the appropriate small words to use so you lot understand there is no possible way I am going to an undisclosed location to speak to your superior regarding the serial bombings occurring in London and other cities in the surrounding area without any sort of guarantee I would be allowed to leave the meeting upright, in one piece and still breathing.”

“Well, if you don’t wanna go,” the Short Man smiled “That’s a’right, we can jus’ take the girl.”

“Fat chance,” Violet Smith said coldly. “Unlike Mr. Holmes, I have no desire to speak to your boss.” She took off her fake spectacles and tucked them inside her coat pocket.

Practical, as always.

“You honestly don’t wanna to know why you gotta bury your boss?” the Short Man asked.

“No,” Violet lied.

Fearless Leader shook his head. “Look, we really don’t want to do this the hard way-”

“Liar,” Violet and Sherlock said at the exact same time.

Under other circumstances, it would have been funny.

Fearless Leader shook his head again “Boys…” he tilted his head towards Sherlock and Violet.

Sherlock thought at his usual breakneck speed: Chronic Smoker is going to flick his lit cig at my face, in hopes of distracting me and possibly blinding me, must shield my eyes. While he does that, Fearless Leader is going to tackle me as if we’re playing rugby. Must stay on my feet, if I fall, I am done for he does outweigh me substantially. Must put Fearless Leader on his back in three hits or less, else I am going to have a terrible fight on my hands, one I may not win. Chronic Smoker will be easy to deal with due to his emphysema; I can hear his breath rattling from here. A strong strike to the chest will take care of him. The Short Man will go after Violet because he is a bully who believes she is weak simply because she is female. Violet will have to hold her own until I can render these two unconscious…

As Sherlock had predicted, the Chronic Smoker flicked his cigarette at Sherlock’s face. He had barely enough time to step backwards while quickly raising his right hand to protect his eyes. He felt the cherry of the cigarette sting his palm.

But as the Fearless Leader had made his move to tackle Sherlock while he was distracted by the cigarette, Violet had stepped in front of the detective. She threw a left-jab right in the Fearless Leader’s mouth, throwing her entire body weight behind the punch. Sherlock heard the awful sound of cracking teeth.

However, Chronic Smoker immediately ran and rammed into her, shoving her to the ground before she could get a second hit in. She fell hard, a gasp of pain involuntarily escaping her from her mouth. “Jesus, take care of her!” the Smoker yelled at the Short Man before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

The Short Man grabbed Violet by her hair and shoulder of her ugly coat. She howled and kicked at him as he hauled her to her feet, the coat sleeve tearing. She reached up and dug her nails in the hand grasping her hair. He yelped and let go. Violet scrambled away from his reach but started circling him, her eyes flashing bloody murder. 

Sherlock had no time to help her as the Fearless Leader had taken a swing at him just as the Chronic Smoker had pushed Violet down. Sherlock ducked, barely missing the swing, then delivered a quick right hook and a left cross. He ducked again and missed the sloppy haymaker punch the Fearless Leader threw. He found an opening then threw a right cross that connected with the Fearless Leader’s nose. There was another sickening crunching sound, but he was unable to make a second hit because the Chronic Smoker had now committed to the fray after knocking Violet down. The Chronic Smoker grabbed Sherlock by his scarf, choking him, pulling him closer and then smashed his fist against Sherlock’s cheek, making him stagger.

Sherlock saw stars for a second, but he stayed upright and managed to push the Chronic Smoker away from him. He began to weave away from the two big men. He felt warm blood oozing down his face and his right knuckles.

Not the worst injury I have suffered he thought detachedly as his mercurial eyes flicked back and forth from the Chronic Smoker and the Fearless Leader.

Now that the Smoker had decided to help his Leader attempt to beat Sherlock into submission, they blocked Violet from Sherlock’s view, making it impossible to see what the vile Short Man was doing to her. But as he continued backpedalling from the Smoker and the Leader though the tiny back garden, he heard a distinct squeal of pain followed by a high-pitched cry of “Bitch!”

Sherlock correctly deduced the Short Man tried to grab and hold her down again, but Violet had bitten him for his troubles.

Good girl he thought as he stepped on the small steps leading up to the back door of the terrace house .

High ground. Not much, but it will do, he thought.

Since the Fearless Leader bled from the mouth thanks to Violet and from the nose thanks to Sherlock, he was the weakest link. So Sherlock pounced on him, much like a cat does an injured rabbit. The Fearless Leader wheeled back in surprise, trying to push Sherlock off of him as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his thick neck in a headlock. The Leader gagged, struggling for air as Sherlock tightened his grip, attempting to wrestle him to the ground.

The Chronic Smoker tried to pull him off. Sherlock let go of the Fearless Leader, pushed him away and then quickly elbowed the Smoker in the solar plexus, hard. The Smoker bent over, gasped for breath, clutching his chest. Sherlock whirled around, his coat fanning out behind him and delivered a solid one-two-three: jab, right hook, left cross. Nose, right ear, left ear. Recalling how much he had enjoyed boxing at university, Sherlock didn’t even bother to watch as the Smoker dropped to his knees then fell on his face.

Meanwhile, the disorientated Fearless Leader had faltered backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet, looking for a quick exit. All Sherlock had to do was take three steps, grab him by the lapels of his jacket then shove him hard and he was flat on his back.

“Who sent you?” he asked coldly, one knee on the Leader’s chest, the other on the man’s upper right arm.

The Leader tried to sit up but Sherlock slammed his hand down on the man’s throat, squeezing, When Sherlock loosened his grip so the Leader could speak, he first spat out a wad of blood and phlegm, possibly a tooth ““You know who sent us,” he then said miserably. 

Sherlock squeezed again. “I know what sent you, the organization. I said who.”

“Don’t you care about your girl?” the Leader wheezed when Sherlock let off the pressure.

Sherlock peeked over his shoulder just in time to see Violet grab the Short Man by the collar of his coat then drive her knee solidly into his diaphragm, twice. “She’s fine,” Sherlock said serenely “The name please.” The Leader garbled something. “Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Sherlock let his entire body weight rest against the man’s chest.

When Sherlock let up again, the Leader gasped “Moriarty.”

Sherlock froze. He hid his dismay “He is dead.”

“Greatest… trick… the devil ever pulled…” the Leader started to say.

“Was to convince the world he didn’t exist,” Sherlock murmured. His own demons slithered around in the sewers and dungeons of his mind palace, trying to escape again.

He very clearly saw Jim Moriarty extend his hand, wanting to shake Sherlock’s… then reaching inside his coat… pulling a gun, sticking the barrel in his mouth… pulling the trigger.

He saw Moriarty’s blood. The fragments of his skull, the bits of brain splattered everywhere…

Sherlock saw his own life shattered by one bullet.

Isn’t that what people do… leave a note?

Jim Moriarty left his note in blood.

But was that really Jim Moriarty… the coldest and cruelest of his demons whispered in his ear, laughing, mocking him…  Or was that Richard Brooks?

Good God, what if that stupid girl Kitty Riley had been right all this time after all?

Did you miss me?

Sherlock gracefully stood up, as if he had just performed a lovely dance instead of being involved in a dirty little brawl. “Leave,” he said brusquely. “Tell your superior to be an adult and contact me through the appropriate channels if he wishes to talk.”

The Leader scrambled to his feet just as Violet delivered a brutal kick right to the Short Man’s privates. Both Sherlock and the Leader winced as the Short Man doubled over, grabbing himself, his teeth clenched in pain and humiliation.

Sherlock couldn’t help but sympathize a little with the misogynistic little villain. Despite the persistent rumors, Sherlock was not a machine but a man, after all. And like all men, he couldn’t help but pity a fellow man who had been hit squarely and solidly in the crown jewels.

He didn’t sympathize enough to offer help. He merely watched impassively as the Leader half-carried, half-dragged the Short Man away, leaving the Chronic Smoker to fend to himself, should he ever come to consciousness. Violet watched them leave, her eyes snapping green and amber flames, feline and furious. Her hands balled in a fist, her mouth turned down in an ugly frown. Her lip had been cut and blood dribbled down her chin.

Once the Leader and the Short Man were gone, however, all the fierceness left her and she doubled over, clutching her side “Shit…” she said, dropping the British accent again.

Sherlock didn’t scold her this time. In three long steps, he was at her side. “How severe do you think your injuries are?” he tilted her face up to examine her cut lip

She shook her head, pulling away from his touch “Nothing serious… just doesn’t feel good, that’s all. I’m definitely going feel this for the next few days. I landed wrong when that bastard pushed me down.” She attempted to straighten up. “We should go soon… I’m pretty sure they heard me screaming all the way up in Edinburgh when that prick pulled my hair,” she grimaced, touching her sore head, her face pale beneath her make-up.

“Agreed,” Sherlock dug into his pocket, produced a crisp white handkerchief and handed it to Violet, disregarding the fact his own cheek and knuckles were still bleeding. “We will have John examine your injuries to be on the safe side.

“Speaking of John, I take it that the Rouge’s brilliant plan was to fake a break-in at John and Mary’s house in order to kidnap you and either John or myself, whichever one of us had been lucky enough to join you for the trip? Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” Violet wiped away the blood from her lip. “This just keeps getting better and better.” She glared at him. “You know, it had been four years since the last time I got beat up. I meet you and I’ve gotten smacked around twice in less than four days. Not to mention my apartment gets blown up, my boss is dead, my company in ruins and any chance of returning to the US has been shot completely to hell…” she unzipped her unattractive pink coat and reached inside to massage her bruised ribs. “It’s like being in a movie where the superhero destroys the entire city while trying to catch the bad guy.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “You’ve been injured before? Four years ago?”

Realizing he was doing the arithmetic, that he had already calculated Four Years Ago was The Year of the Fall, she started to say “It’s an occupational hazard of being in hidin-“ but she suddenly sucked in her breath and pushed Sherlock away from her.

Sherlock stumbled back, his ears suddenly ringing. He smelled gunpowder.

Startled, he looked at Violet.

She held a .22 caliber Rutgers in her left hand, pointing it at where the Chronic Smoker had been lying face down in the perfectly manicured lawn. Only he wasn’t laying on his face anymore but his back. Sherlock took a step closer to the Smoker. His legs were all akimbo. There was a Sig Sauer lying near his right hand. There was a round, red hole, square between his unfocused eyes.

He crept closer to the dead man, fascinated. What made this man try and kill him, shoot him in the back like a coward when the objective of their mission was to only abduct him?

But suddenly Violet materialized at his side, pulling at his sleeve. She looked less like a stone cold killer and more like a very frightened girl.

“We have to go,” she pleaded. “I just fired a gun I’m not supposed to have in a residential area. This place is going to be crawling with cops any minute and I’m not supposed to exist. Please, Sherlock?” now she reached for the lapels of his coat, forcibly pulling him away from the body.  

Disappointed, he allowed Violet to lead him away from this very interesting new twist in this wonderfully convoluted game someone obviously designed just for him.

Sorry boys, I can’t come out to play today… he thought regretfully as he paused to scoop up and pocket his handkerchief with Violet’s blood on it. She had dropped it when she reached for her gun.

It wouldn’t do to leave DNA evidence at a crime scene.

They backtracked their way through all the back gardens, Violet whimpered as she hustled, but she refused to let her bruised body impede her progress back to safety. However when they made it to John’s back door, the adrenaline wore off and she swayed on her feet. As her knees buckled, Sherlock caught her, cradling her for a bit in his arms. She tried to smile “So chivalry isn’t completely dead,” she said faintly.

“I do apologize,” Sherlock wrapped one of his long arms around her waist while draping her right arm over his thin shoulders “I believe you may have received the brunt of the abuse today.”  He helped her stand up.

“May have? Are you kidding me?” Violet scowled at him just as John opened the back door.

His mouth dropped open as his eyebrows flew up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Wordlessly he stared at his best friend and the American, taking in all the blood, the bruises and the disheveled hair the both of them had.

“So,” Violet struggled to regain her British accent. It took her a few tries but finally she said in an bright and British voice “So you and Mary will be spending tonight at Baker Street, yes?”

“Jesus… Christ,” was all John could manage to splutter out.

**

Once safely ensconced in 221B Baker Street later on in the afternoon, Violet indeed found herself in a world of misery.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” she whimpered as she eased into “John’s chair.”

Sherlock lowered the bag of frozen peas from his face (expiration date January 19, 2014). “Oh for heaven’s sake, let me see,” he insisted as he rose from “his” chair, dropping the peas on to the table next to his chair.

“No,” she snarled but Sherlock already bounded out of his chair to go to her side. He crouched down to try and lift up the hem of his aubergine shirt that she still wore. “Hey,” she yelped, twisting away from him, grimacing as she moved “You going to buy me dinner first?” 

The jibe flew right over Sherlock’s head. “Why would I buy you dinner when I bought food for you and your canine after we met the late Section Chief Carson at the pool hall? Now stop squirming about and just let me have a look-”

Violet slapped his hand, hard. “NO. Leave. Me. Alone. John already examined me.”

“I just want to see the bruises again,” he said in the sulky voice a little boy would use while whining how he just wanted to open ONE present before Christmas.

Violet pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at him. “If I show you, will you promise to leave me alone for the rest of the night?”

 “Yes.”

She shook her head then gingerly hiked up the dress shirt so Sherlock could view the splotches of fresh bruises covering her right side. “I just landed really hard,” she said, letting her head flop back on the chair’s headrest as Sherlock surveyed her injuries (He mentally noted the old laparoscopic scars on her abdomen.) “I think I landed on a rock or something. But seriously, I’m fine. I’ve had worse wiping out on my bike. How’s your face?”

“Hurts,” Sherlock admitted, still riveted by her new bruises and old scars.

“OK, that’s enough,” Violet jerked the shirt down. “This is getting creepy.”

Pouting, deprived of his fun, Sherlock sulked back to his chair. Picking up the thawing bag of frozen peas, he complained “John is late,” as he put the bag back on his aching face.

Really, the face, why was it always the face? Why couldn’t people punch him somewhere else once in a while?

“John is not late,” Violet reminded him. “He had to take care of some things at the clinic first. Then he was going to check in on Mary at the hospital she works at. You might as well turn the TV on or start reading Anna Karenina. It’s going to be a while before he shows up.”

“But John told me he asked Lestrade to put additional surveillance on Mary, why does he need to follow her around as well?” Sherlock griped while thinking Mary doesn’t need protecting, not anymore now that Magnussen is dead. Mary can take care of herself. “And I finished Anna Karenina ages ago.”

Violet reached out her hand and Gladstone daintily leapt off the couch and stuck his head under her palm. Scratching her hound’s head, she said wearily “He’s her husband. It’s his job to protect her. Plus, he needs to be extra-hetero to her after the way he fussed all over you while treating you at his house,” she muttered more to herself than Sherlock.

Of course Sherlock heard her as clearly as if she had shouted it at him through a megaphone.  Frowning, he looked at the Elastoplast John had put over the cigarette burn on his palm and the cotton binding around his hurt knuckles. “What precisely do you mean by that? ‘Extra-hetero’?”

“Never mind, forget it.”

“I will not,” Sherlock’s eyes, face and voice all turned to ice. “I dislike people mocking my friends and I hate people who prey on others who are different, ridiculing them.”

“You ridicule people all the time for being stupid.”

“Most people choose to be stupid and unobservant hence deserving of the ridicule. People who are different than the norm rarely choose to be different and even rarer, are accepted for being different. And I thought you had better sense than to believe those gossip rags or to insult someone based upon sexual preference, which is no one’s business. But that is how those filthy tabloids make their living, isn’t it? Prying into people’s personal business.”

Violet held up her in as if to shield herself from his furious diatribe. “Calm down. Before the hives come back and you’re an itchy mess on top of being beaten up. I’m sorry, OK?. I wasn’t insulting your best friend. I was just being sarcastic. And for the record I don’t give a shit who sleeps with who. Remember, I lived with a gay man for nearly three years. It doesn’t bother me, not to mention I picked up on few things.”

“Then what are you insinuating? John is not gay.”

“Yes he is.”

“No. He’s not.”  

“Maybe he doesn’t want to fuck men, but when it comes to you and John’s heart, he is gayer than Christmas, Sherlock. Trust me.”

“Well, I’m not homosexual either,” Sherlock said haughtily.

“No, you play for both teams but choose to be celibate because you don’t want any distractions from your work. You also let people believe you’re asexual for the simple fact you love screwing with their puny little brains,” Violet smiled wickedly. When Sherlock gave her a sour look, her evil grin expanded. She pointed to herself and said “Profiler.”

“Thought you said you weren’t interested in my personal life?” Sherlock sneered.

“I’m not,” she reminded him, tiredly, the smirk sliding off her face. “Unless it directly affects myself or the case, as I guess we’re still calling this nightmare ‘a case’.”

“How does John affect you?”

“Really?” she tilted her head; examining him the way people would if they saw a cat tap-dancing on its hind legs. “You, the most perceptive man in the world, needs an explanation how your bond with John affects me?”

“What… bond?” his entire face crinkled in utter confusion.

“Seriously?” she said incredulously. “Did you just seriously say that?” When he did not deign to give a reply, she started to get up, winced then settled back down. “Well… he loves you.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock’s nostrils’ flared. “Of all the observations you could have provided, you decide to speak about mawkish idiocies instead of giving me something useful to listen to. Sentimental drivel that is advantageous to no one.”

”Sentiment sells romance novels, chick flicks and Valentine Day’s cards,” Violet said. “Don’t confuse sentiment with love. Love is standing next to someone’s side while he is being crucified in the press for kidnapping two children from a boarding school. Love is punching a cop in the face after that cop arrested his best friend. Love is forgiving that same best friend after he returns from faking his death for two years.” 

Sherlock looked at the floor “Oh… well…” he muttered, hating how he could feel heat in his cheeks, despite the frozen bag of vegetables pressed to one of them. “That’s… irrelevant.”

“Like hell it is!” Violet rolled her eyes again. “Love is the only reason why he puts up with all your…” she made confused hand gestures towards him. “With all your…  you.”

“He’s married,” Sherlock said, completely irritated he had walked straight into another one of Violet’s uncomfortable deductions, or as she insisted on calling them profiles. Walked? More like waltzed right into it. “To a woman, in case that glaringly obvious fact escaped your notice.”

“A woman he met when he thought you were dead,” Violet snapped “in case that glaringly obvious fact escaped your notice. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out why your friend is a hot mess. Oh don’t get me wrong, he hides it very well,” Violet shifted in “John’s” chair, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. Gladstone padded around and plunked his face in her lap “So well, he’s hidden it from himself.”

Sherlock felt his lips tightening into a very thin line. He disliked these kinds of conversations… emotions… feelings… pedestrian, sloppy… painful. “I still fail to see how this affects you.”

“As proven by today’s hijinks and shenanigans, it makes him a target.”

“John made himself a target the minute he chose to be my assistant and flat-mate,” Sherlock said very cautiously.

“John is no longer your flat-mate and if he wants to stay married, he’s going to have to cut back on cases or quit all together. It’s like I told John at the café in the City before everything went straight to hell: Women don’t like to compete for the attention of their husbands. Mary is not going to put with him running after you for much longer. Especially if it gets him beaten up or worse, if she catches him in one of the lies he told her to protect you and, by proxy, me since I’m pretty sure he didn’t tell her I’m an American and a burned FBI agent.”

“That would be problematic,” Sherlock conceded while thinking A former assassin probably would feel quite uncomfortable in the presence of a former FBI agent… or it could be fun…

Violet went on: “I can’t predict when or how, but he’s going to be forced into a situation where he is going to have to choose between you or Mary. If this case isn’t resolved before that happens, if Jack Woodley or the Earl don’t make some sort of misstep we can nail them for, well, that could possibly compromise me, if he chooses you.”

“Because that could possibly ruin our little “You’re Sherlock Holmes’ … girlfriend” cover story, even if the relationship between John and I is strictly platonic,” Sherlock made a small frown. The word “girlfriend” still felt alien and unwelcome in his mouth.

“The press would most definitely twist your relationship into something non-platonic if he does leave Mary and moves back here.”

“That would be definitely problematic for both of us since I’m charged with your safekeeping per the directives of the British government.” And Mycroft… damn him…

“Your concern is heartwarming,” Violet said in a voice dry as stale toast. “It also affects me if he chooses Mary because you will be absolutely miserable.”

Sherlock found the toes of his socks very interesting suddenly. “Why would that affect you?”

“Because I have to live with you.”

“Oh.” 

She sighed, resuming scratching Gladstone’s head. “And… I guess…. OK I don’t really enjoy the idea of you being unhappy. Either one of you being unhappy to be honest… you really have no idea how much John struggled while the world thought you were dead, still struggles with it. You think you do, but…” she shook her head. “It was hard for him, for a long time. I don’t want to think what might have happened if he hadn’t met Mary when he did.”  

“You spied on John after I was gone,” Sherlock raised his head, narrowing his eyes at her.

She met his eyes evenly. “I kept tabs on him after the Fall. Not out-and-out spying, not like what Moriarty paid me to do. Just… you know, kept an eye out for him, made sure he was alright. I… felt bad for him. He was devastated.” She stroked Gladstone’s fur for a moment, carefully choosing her next words: “I guess that’s why I feel you need to try harder to understand how hurt he was by the Fall and how confused he is now.”

“Confused? By what?”

He really hated this conversation. Hated being… preached at.

Violet bit her lower lip for a second, then said “Before the Fall he thought what you and he had was…Not a bromance,” she shook her head. “That’s a stupid made-up word and it’s not what John thought was going on. He though you two just a really close friendship, kind of like comrade-in-arms, like how men who serve in the military together can become really close, closer than friends, closer than brothers. But when you came back to him, it was a miracle. You died for him and you rose from the dead and came back for him. Can you imagine how knowing that made him feel once he got past the anger?”

Shrugging Sherlock muttered “Well, he didn’t get sentimental. He could still function as a somewhat intelligent human being.”

“Sentiment is a weak emotion, easily forgotten once the moment passes. What John felt was intense, life-changing. You see… OK, to be blunt, possibly crude…”

“An American acting crude? Pardon me if I don’t faint from the shock of it all.”

Violet ignored the insult “I got my Masters in Psych before I entered Quantico so I’m not just pulling this out of the thin air.”  She locked her feral amber eyes onto his, those strange disconcerting all-seeing eyes of his. She willed him to understand, to see, what she was trying to tell him: “The intense feelings he has for you are feelings he normally associates with sex.”

“Ugh. Freudian nonsensical drivel. Spare me.”

“Freud wasn’t wrong about everything. And when I say sex, don’t confuse casual sex with relationship-sex. I am fully aware that before the wedding ring went on he was known as John “Three Continents” Watson.”

Sherlock tried suppressing a snicker, failed. Who do you think gave him that nickname? 

Violet couldn’t hide a smile either but sobered up fairly quickly. “So, yeah, his feelings are not about just getting laid, even though, before he met Mary, he was, uh… well, kind of, um…”

“A glutton for punishment and a whore for feminine attention,” Sherlock supplied helpfully.

“I was going to say “a player”, but that is way more accurate… and real asshole thing to say about your best friend, just throwing that out there.”

Sherlock shrugged negligently. “I do not have a reputation for sugar-coating facts.”

“Really, I haven’t noticed,” Violet would have loved to thrown something at his smug face… a pillow… a cushion… a brick. “ANYWAY. What he’s feeling FOR YOU,” she gave him a milk-curdling look, “Is about trust and intimacy and love, which are feelings he associates with a committed relationship, which in turn he associates with monogamous sex and monogamous sex usually means, for him, with a woman,” she moved her hands from the left to the right and back again as she explained. Then wincing again, she rubbed her right side, uncomfortable again. “So he can’t wrap his head around how he can have such intense feelings of trust, intimacy and love for you.” She held her hands out to Sherlock. “A man. The complete opposite of who he been conditioned to trust, love and be intimate with, which opens the can of worms that is the ongoing debate about nature versus nurture,” she shifted painfully in her seat again “Which I feel too shitty to get into right now.”  

“What you are trying to communicate to me in that long convoluted soliloquy,” Sherlock said “is that John is emotionally invested in me but not physically attracted, which is confusing him.”

“Bingo.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said again, softly. He suspected, of course, deduced actually… and promptly deleted because it had been safer… but hearing that truth again… out loud…

He cleared his throat. “Well, he never did understand that emotions and intercourse can be mutually exclusive from the other. He wasn’t quite the Casanova he liked to believe he was, my dear Agent Hunter. He was always a bit of an idiot when it came to emotional and physical entanglements. Never could keep them separate, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, remembering some of the women John had dated while they were flat-mates.

John had always insisted he was just trying to “get off” whenever he went to chat up a new girl, but he always wound up in some sort of a relationship with them.

Ugh, the poetry… the awful awful Poe-Et-Tree he’d write for those bland, predictable girls…

At least Mary was interesting even if somewhat murderous, thank God for small mercies.

And Mary actually liked him… most of the time.

“True,” Violet nodded. “One is not dependant on the other. But he believes sex and love are symbiotic. One withers without the other. And that’s not going to change about him. He needs physical affection because he thinks that’s the only way to be intimate with someone you love.”

Sherlock mulled over her words. He hated to admit it but she made sense. Finally, someone was able explain feelings logically. How odd. And liberating.   

And how terrifying to be reminded he was that important to John… but why?

But yet, this foreign woman, this outcast, this… violent criminal had watched over John in his absence, like some strange, dark angel. Or bright demon… the jury still deliberated…

Violet continued speaking, scratching Gladstone’s ears again: “So since he believes intimacy equals sex and because you two are so close…” she threw her hands up again, in a helpless gesture. Gladstone whined when she stopped scratching his ears “Oh, so sorry, Your Majesty,” she resumed her ear-scratching duties. Gladstone wagged his tail in approval. “Anyway, it’s pretty clear to me why he’s all twisted up inside. And why he gets so defensive when people think he’s gay. Then,” she sighed. “We have to include Harry to the mix.”  

“So you know about his sister?”

“I did my research,” she said, a touch of pride in her voice. “Alcoholic lesbian sister who was basically excommunicated from his family when she came out, yeah, then there’s that.  And now, his own marriage, which after the past few days, I think it’s safe to say might be on the rocks very soon…. You’re his best friend, he’d die for you and he thinks his feelings for you are wrong so he hides them, even from himself. And… you broke his heart when you jumped. Why is it so hard for you to see what he is going through?”

“I see it,” he muttered bitterly “I see everything.”  He got up and handed the bag of frozen peas to Violet. The way she kept twisting in her seat, it was obvious she needed to ice her injuries more than he did.

“What are you going to do about it?” she said, taking the bag and gingerly pressed it to her side.

Sherlock plopped down in his chair, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his long legs, resting his chin on his knees, staring at the skull on the fireplace mantle refusing to look at Violet any longer. He didn’t want to discuss John anymore either, not with her. He didn’t want to feel his own insides twisting up in a painful, confused knot. He saved John when he jumped and yet failed him at the same time. He just wanted to feel happy and excited because John was going to be here, tonight, where he belonged. He didn’t even care Mary would be accompanying him. He liked Mary… most of the time.

But he could feel Violet’s sharp eyes still locked on his face, studying him and every move he made so he asked blackly “What do you propose?”

“Oh no,” Violet held one of her hands up. “No no. No. No. No. That’s between you and John. You two need to figure that out. I’m just sharing my observations.”

“Why?”

“At the end of the day, I don’t feel like getting shot because you two love birds can’t get your shit figured out... but I do have to admit it’s an added bonus seeing that you can dish it out but can’t take it,” she added with a mischievous grin. 

“We are not love birds,” Sherlock grimaced, now regretting giving her the bag. His face really did hurt. The Chronic Smoker had bony knuckles… the relevant word being had. Past tense.

“I noticed,” Sherlock reached for the aspirin and glass of water on the little table next to his chair. “You never asked me about my… feelings for John.”

“I don’t have to,” Violet closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: Dog-and-Pony Show

Before Sherlock could interrogate Violet any further, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. Violet opened one eye, reaching for the gun that was on the little table next to the chair she sat in.

“John and Mrs. Hudson are the only people who have keys to this flat,” Sherlock informed her. Violet twitched a magazine over the weapon as the door opened.

Sherlock shot Violet a triumphant “I Told You So” look as John came in with an overnight bag, his doctor’s bag and a white paper sack with a nearby chemist’s logo embossed on it. “Hey,” he said, letting himself in. “How’s everyone feeling?”

“Better,” Violet switched into her false British accent. “Where’s Mary?”

“Mary… isn’t coming.”

“What? Why the hell not?” Violet demanded, switching back to her real American accent.   

“That’s unwise John,” Sherlock added.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” John shut the door with a bit more force than he had intended. “It took everything I had within me to at least convince her to stay with Molly Hooper.”

“Molly’s flat is the size of a gerbil cage, how will there be enough room for the both of them?” Sherlock asked.

John set his luggage down next to the sofa and took off his black jacket. “You’ve never been to new Molly’s flat, how would you know..?”

“Easy to deduce Molly would only be able to afford small lodgings based on the miserly salary St. Bart’s pays her,” Sherlock opened the bottle of aspirin, swallowing two pills then chasing them with the glass of water.

This satisfied John but Violet had caught how Sherlock’s voice pitched down half an octave. His lying voice. You do know how small Molly’s apartment is… but what brought you to there…

A picture in her mind that had been previously out of focus began to sharpen…

Sunday, yesterday (God was that only yesterday?) … at St. Bart’s… in the morgue… using Molly’s office to make arrangements for Bear’s funeral (Bear was alive on Saturday, was dead on Sunday… how could that be?) …  trying to control her grief, trying to keep her wits so she complete vital tasks such as making sure payroll would still go out this week, trying to calculate how much money was left in reserves so that maybe the employees could receive a few more pay cheques before the company went under… Molly came in, obviously had been crying, but claimed she only needed a clean pair of scrubs…John’s face, lined with concern…

“You OK, Molly?”

“Of course.”

“Did Sherlock say something to upset you? I’ll have a word with him if he did.”

“No, he’s actually behaving himself for once. I’m just, well, being silly…”

 “…Molly, I can talk to Sherlock if he is being obnoxious.”

“I am perfectly capable of telling off Sherlock Holmes if necessary…I’m sorry, John, I’m just not feeling very well today, that’s all.”

She had definitely looked unwell: wan, troubled and fatigued. Also, she nearly gagged when John invited her to come with for Chinese. Violet, distracted and troubled herself, dismissed Molly’s state-of-being, figuring maybe the poor woman caught the flu or something…

Then, while trying to hail a cab, John’s musings…

“If I didn’t know better…”

“What? What idiotic assumption are you about to inflict onto the world, an assumption based off of no credible evidence whatsoever?”

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Violet hoped to God John’s presence at Baker Street would distract the Great Detective from observing any minuscule body motions and tiny facial tics she may have unconsciously produced when she had arrived at her conclusion as to why Sherlock knew how small Molly’s apartment was… and what the consequence of that knowledge probably was… since after everyone had left Sherlock and Molly alone in the morgue, his mood had one-eightied from his usual insufferable arrogance to a viperous cruelty he inflicted upon everyone.

Except for her, or at least, he hadn’t been cruel to her at the morgue. John had warned her to leave Sherlock severely alone at all costs after he had gone down to check on him and Molly in the morgue. Best to leave him be, he had said, his face slightly pale, when he returned to Molly’s office. Something’s crawled up his arse and died, dunno what…  

And Molly. Sherlock had not been cruel to Molly yesterday either. Brusque but not unkind.

So much for celibacy…Sherlock, you moron… who’s the whore for feminine attention now?

She locked down on her latest revelation, keeping her face a placid mask. If her suspicion was correct, she would have to seriously assess the risk this newest complication posed to her… but later. Now was not the time.

She turned her attention back to the two men, who prattled on as if she wasn’t even there.

“… so if one of you could be so kind as to bring me up to speed about this Rouge gang, maybe that would help me convince my wife this is a bit more serious than she believes,” John said, settling down on the sofa.

“Agent Hunter, you have the floor,” Sherlock said graciously.

“Really?”

“My face hurts. I don’t feel like talking.”

“Oh boo-hoo, I got hit in the face too,” Violet pointed to her cut lip “Twice, actually, if you count the thugs at my apartment.”

“Really should’ve just left you two out in my back garden and barricaded the door,” John groaned, deciding the black-and-purple shiner still on his face must be invisible to this pair.

“OK, OK, sorry” Violet struggled to her feet. She felt so stiff… the last few days were catching up to her. Plus, as Sherlock gleefully had pointed out to her at the café, she was not exactly a “spring chicken” anymore. “So you already know they are a secretive society of consultants who help bad guys stay in business and Jim Moriarty was one of their big shots, if not The Big Shot.”

Personally, Violet thought that information alone should have terrified Mary into forcing John to move them to New Zealand. Permanently. Then Violet remembered the Noble Doctor hadn’t been telling the Good Lady Wife everything.

She also wondered how long Sherlock was going to let her speak before butting in.

“This network has been in existence for a few centuries now. The first documented occurrence was back in 1891, in Paris, where the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase’s headquarters used to be until the late Nineties, early 2000’s, where they dropped for the radar for a few years then re-established themselves in Belfast in 2007.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but my French is utter crap,” John said “What does that mean, exactly? Rouge Dirigé Liguecase? ” John mangled the pronunciation. “I know “rouge” is red, but…?”

Sherlock drawled “’The Red-headed League’. There are reasons behind the belief why gingers are soulless,” he smiled sweetly at Violet.

Violet gave Sherlock a withering glance. “This is fake and you know it,” she tugged on one of her chestnut locks “You’re the one who deduced it was fake.” 

“ANYWAY,” John heaved a sigh and checked his watch. Nearly five o’clock.

This was going to be a very long night.

“Anyway,” Violet rubbed her side, wishing the ache would go away. Nothing but time, ice and ibuprofen would accomplish that, but she was so tired of feeling like crap all the time… “Anyway, the legend is back in the 1890’s, only red-heads could join. Hence the name. Of course now, they could give a rat’s ass what color your hair is, as long as you can do your job.”

“The job being, consulting criminals, telling them how to get away with it and offering them protection,” John thought of Molly and Mary, worrying about how completely vulnerable they were… not that either woman was necessarily frail and helpless, but still… maybe Lestrade would convince “the girls” to go to his flat and stay with him. It’d be safer, not to mention larger.

Also, John and Mary had known Lestrade and Molly had reconciled long before Molly had told Sherlock since they were frequent supper guests at the Watsons’ home. Sherlock had only seen Lestrade and Molly at crime scenes and the morgue and it had been Strictly Business.

John frowned… Molly had looked very ill, almost flu-ish, no appetite… but yet… she looked like she had put on a few pounds… was there a nine-month reason why Lestrade and Molly so quickly reconciled?

He shook away the distracting thought and focused on Violet’s history lesson.

“… they’re more of a cult than a gang or mob. They do have familial ties, but nothing like the Mafia. They definitely don’t have religious convictions like the al-Qaeda or True IRA. And it’s not about territory or pride like American street gangs. You are either born to it or brought into it. If you’re not born into the life, you don’t ask to join, you’re recruited. Based on what I’ve been able to piece together over the years. Jim Moriarty definitely was born into this life and probably started his official career as some sort of talent scout… that may explain how his obsession over Sherlock started.”

“Hang on,” John said “You think Moriarty was trying to get Sherlock to… join him?”

“Actually, Bear as well as my partner, the late Agent Steven Morgan thought the Rouge was trying to recruit Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” John squawked.

“It’s obvious, John,” Sherlock said lazily “How convenient would it be to have their own little pet embedded in the heart of the British government. Agent Hunter, however, disagreed with her supervisor and her partner.”

“I did,” Violet said. “Mycroft didn’t fit the profile of who the Rouge typically recruits.”

“What’s the typical profile?” John asked.

Violet didn’t answer but her eyes flicked over to Sherlock.

“Brilliant, imaginative, audacious, dynamic,” Sherlock said modestly.

“With violent psychopathic tendencies,” Violet added, aridly. “I believed the Rouge, had taken the tag-team approach with Sherlock and Mycroft. They wanted Sherlock to join them. At the same time, through the Earl, the Rouge trying to bend Mycroft to their will, to look the other way while they solidified their presence in England….”

“Blackmail,” John said “Sherlock, was the Earl trying to blackmail your brother for… allowing him to do to you what he did when you and Mycroft were kids?” he asked delicately as possible.

Sherlock arched his eyebrow. “If what had happened to me during my childhood ever came to light, it would make the Earl look bad, not Mycroft. No. John, think logically. Not blackmail. Political pressure. The Earl is a member of the House of Lords.”

“Would be kind of tough for Mycroft to continue playing Cloak and Dagger if Parliament decided to cut his budget,” Violet said. “Isn’t the Earl gaining some infamy for his demands for the Crown and Parliament to become more transparent? Look what happened to the US a year or so ago when that whole thing with Snowden and the NSA blew up. What little credibility my country’s government had pretty much went up in smoke. I doubt the British populace would be very happy to learn Mycroft watches their every move on CCTV.”

“My brother and the Earl have been playing this chess game since they were teens, John,” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “But this is no longer child’s play. This is Mycroft and the British government versus the Earl and the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase. I am only a pawn to them, a small detail in a much greater game.  Past history would only be detrimental to both of them so that has been buried and forgotten.”

There was no rancor in Sherlock’s voice but John still felt a stab of hurt for his friend. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said softly, knowing it was his only chance to say that to Sherlock.

“This is not the time for sentiment John although I appreciate the spirit it was given in,” Sherlock said astringently. Violet narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her arms, silently reminding him of their recent conversation. Sherlock softened his voice. “Forgive me John, but… I do not want to speak of it ever again. I survived. That is all I have to say about the ordeal-“

“But-“

“Please.”

John could count on one hand how many times Sherlock had said “Please”.  Of course, one of those times was when he begged John to tell him where he had hidden his cigarettes, but still…  John relented, for now. “Yeah…OK… OK, we’ll let it go… but I do have a question… Violet, you said ‘You are either born to it or brought into it’?”

Violet nodded. “The kids are called Petits Rouge. Usually children of existing members, but some are kidnapped children of unsatisfied customers.” Then her face darkened “Or sold to the Rouge by truly desperate customers.”

“What?” John blinked owlishly in disbelief.

 Violet nodded “They start training them as young as four years old. Sherlock thought-“

“Deduced,” he corrected her.

Violet and John rolled their eyes at the same time. “Whatever,” Violet said under her breath. “His Highness deduced… and I agree with him, actually,” she admitted grudgingly “That it was a group of kids from the Rouge that broke into your house and planted the books and Moriarty’s picture. They would’ve blended into the neighborhood, nobody is going to question a bunch of kids playing soccer on a quiet side street.”

“Except by a curious little girl who lives across the street and saw them breaking in but was told by those juvenile delinquents her parents would be murdered if she told the police what she saw. Why else would that child had screamed when Sally Donovan appeared on her doorstep?” Sherlock said, snapping his fingers at Gladstone, who came over and rested his snout on Sherlock’s knee.

The damned hound was growing on him, John noticed as Sherlock ran his hand down the dog’s head and neck over and over as Violet continued to talk.

“The Petits Rouge were probably in their early teens. Breaking into your house was probably the beginning of their official initiation into the organization,” Violet said. “The results of not being able to complete the tests, whatever you’re born in or brought in are severe and permanent.”

“But, ah, the payoff,” Sherlock said, “the benefits. Wealth, power, both unlimited.”

“The Rouge is small, contained, well-organized, secretive and well-funded. Or it was. Sherlock, do you have a world map somewhere? Or can you pull one up quick on your computer? I want to show John something.”

“John,” Sherlock flapped his hand at John’s overnight bag.

“Sherlock,” John said in his “The-Lord-Is-Testing-Me” voice “Your laptop is right there. And open. And plugged in. And turned on.”

Sherlock ignored John, as usual. He continued to pet Gladstone, closing his eyes.

“Just do it,” Violet shook her head. “Mrs. Hudson’s going to be up here in about an hour with enough food to feed a third-world nation. I’d like to wrap this up before then.”

John gritted his teeth, swallowed his irritation and unzipped his bag to pull out his computer. Soon he had it booted up and had pulled up a fairly decent world map online.

Violet slowly sat down next to him on the couch. John noticed her lips tightening in pain as she sank down into the sofa. He made a mental note to suggest a warm bath later to loosen up her sore muscles. After all she had been through these past few days her body had to be one gigantic charley horse right now.

Violet moused the cursor over so it was hovering over Europe “Speaking of third-world nations, the Rouge avoided creating cells in underdeveloped countries. Oh, they happily helped the Taliban create a stranglehold in Afghanistan and Russia invade the Eastern Ukraine…”

“For a hefty fee, of course,” John found himself hating this people more and more. Children, they used children to break into my home his mouth turned down in disgust.

“Oh but of course,” Violet said disdainfully. “Never forget wealth and power is their god… but creature comfort is not something they’ll sacrifice for it. Actual members of the Rouge would never live in a poverty-stricken country. They all set up shop and residence in First World nations, typically in major cities.”

“What’s the point of wealth and power if you can’t enjoy it?” Sherlock said. “I don’t think Moriarty would have been able to find a dry-cleaner for his precious Westwood suits in the Sudan.”

“Coincidentally, about four years ago, Rouge footholds in Europe and the US started crumbling. The first to fall was Paris, a blow to morale since that’s supposedly where the Rouge originated,” she risked a glance at Sherlock “Burn heart out of them, so to speak.”

“Paris was fun,” he purred, producing the first genuine smile all day.   

“I bet,” John fought the urge to take his computer and hit Sherlock repeatedly upside his head with it.

Violet, sensing John’s ire, said quickly: “Madrid fell quickly after that then there was a lull in activity, but approximately six weeks after Madrid, Rome came undone.”

She is showing me exactly where Sherlock had been during those two years, John realized. Those two long awful years…

“Berlin was hurt, but still operational, only in a very limited capacity,” Violet said.

“Nazi sympathizers keep the German cells going,” Sherlock said, aggravated. “I reassessed the risk and decided it was more prudent to cut my losses and continue onwards.”

He also decided it would not be wise to mention to either John or Violet that was also where the skinhead had jumped him, intent on stabbing him to death. He still had scars from the superficial cuts and the one dangerous puncture wound he had received.

He stopped smiling.

Once in a while, he still dreamed about how he rammed the knife up into the skinhead’s throat. In self-defense of course, but he had never actually killed anyone with his own hands before… but he knew he was in a kill-or-be-killed situation… so he had saved himself and crawled his way back to Rome, where Irene Adler waited for him, helped him recuperate… didn’t ask questions… didn’t shy away from caring for him as he sweated and shivered from the fever caused by the contaminated wound … didn’t judge him when, while delirious from pain and infection, had asked for John… no, begged for John. Please please please…I need him…

The Woman also didn’t complain when he had started smoking heavily again after he recovered… thank God…

The peculiar thing was he knew Violet and John would understand. He had been a soldier. She was a soldier’s daughter and had been law enforcement. They had both killed people… still it was something else he did not care to speak about it. Or think about it. He had survived. The end justified the means so… Delete… delete… delete already, dammit…

Why isn’t deletion working anymore? No wonder my wits are slowing down, I’m overloaded and overburdened with useless information and distracting sentiment He found himself gripping the armrests of his chair as Violet continued to speak:

“Well, at the very least, the Berlin cell is a shadow of its former self,” Violet said. “The Rouge had been so busy investing in expanding their presence in North America; they overextended themselves, which was why Paris, Madrid and Rome toppled within six months. Once an asset now became a liability.”

“I don’t understand,” John admitted.

“They didn’t have enough people or resources to defend their European interests,” Sherlock explained. “They thought they were untouchable.”

“How…” John started, “How exactly were you able to undo a criminal enterprise nearly two hundred years old?”

“Think it through John,” Sherlock stretched out his long legs. “Violet, don’t help him. He needs to learn how to use available information to make deductions. It’s no different than looking at the symptoms to diagnose then treat the disease, John.” 

Violet ignored Sherlock’s request not to assist. “What do they do for living John?”

“They tell other criminals what to do so they can carry on being criminals.”

“And we agree that they are paid very handsomely for their advice, right?”

“Well, yea-,” John started to say, but then said instead “Oh! You followed the money.”

“Exactly,” A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s lips. “Each city, I investigated the origin of that particular cell’s income flow then I ensured the income stopped flowing. A well-placed head’s-up to a rival gang or an anonymous tip to the local law authorities…. Then I allowed nature to take its course, after giving it a gentle nudge in the right direction, naturally.”

“Brilliant,” John couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t egg him on, if his ego gets any bigger, there won’t be room for us to stay here tonight,” Violet said. “With Europe essentially in chaos, North America battened down their hatches, but it didn’t do them much good. LA, Seattle, Vancouver, Vegas, New Orleans, Chicago, Atlanta, all fell like dominoes, in that order. Unfortunately, the Rouge still has strong footholds in Washington DC and New York City, which is obviously a huge problem, especially DC.”

“They sacrificed their Western, Midwestern and Southern interests to secure the East, priority being the capital city of the United States,” Sherlock explained. “They left Canada and Mexico to their own devices. There was no challenge to dismantling the Vancouver cell, boring actually. Fortunately it was not necessary for me to become involved in their Mexican interests as their drug cartels did not request nor appreciate any additional offers of assistance.”

“Sorry?” John asked. “I don’t follow.”

“Mexico is a war zone,” Violet, a subject expert on this as well, explained. “The cartels have no problem cutting off your head if you get in their way. I saw my first headless body when I was twenty-eight, twenty-nine? I was still a rookie, fresh from Quantico and the shit I saw when I was in the New Mexico field office… it was,” she shuddered. “Let’s just say the cartels don’t like outsiders and leave it at that.”

“With their culture of machismo and all that nonsense, the cartels will not pay anyone for assistance, because that would be admitting they needed assistance. Nor will they tolerate any organization that could potentially assist a rival trying to poach their business. That foolhardy mentality is a benefit to us because what’s left of the Rouge is fighting for their existence in Mexico, which also means any Rouge cells that could possible exist in South America are cut off from any sort of aid from their compatriots as well.” He loosened his fingers on armrests and steepled them again under his chin, feeling back in control. Feeling like himself. Emotions tucked away in its proper place, he proclaimed “So, literally, the only known cells with any sort of power in the Western Hemisphere are indeed New York City and Washington DC.”

“OK, great,” John studied the map grimly. “Fantastic. Who’s left in Europe and elsewhere?”

Violet answered “Berlin, of course, but severely weakened. Moscow. Dubai. Dublin and Belfast, which is also unfortunate. And London, which again is a huge problem for us. There is no way in God’s green earth anyone is going to be able to touch Moscow and Dubai and survive, at least not right now. China cut their own ties a few years ago when one of their biggest crime lords, a General Shen, met the wrong end of a bullet. With her head.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a quick look. Then they both allowed themselves a quick smirk.

“Mm. Pity,” Sherlock said succinctly.

“Yeah, right shame ‘bout that,” John said, just as pithy.

Violet furrowed her brow, having the feeling she was on the outside of a very inside joke. She muttered something under her breath that suspiciously sounded like “Goddamn Brits,” but was quick to say in a normal tone of voice “I believe, if we can get London to fall, then Dublin and Belfast will be quick to follow.”

“And to topple London, we need to get to the Earl and Jack Woodley,” John nodded. “OK. How?”

“Sherlock?” Violet asked “This is your area of expertise. How the hell are we going to do this?”

“Same as before,” Sherlock said, growing bored. “Stop the money from coming in… before they decide to initiate The Sign of Four. Assuming they haven’t already, of course. ”

“The Sign of What?” John asked Violet. “Does that have something to do with the books you found in my home?”

But before Violet could say anything, there was a knock then a “Yoo-hoo, Sherlock?” came from the other side of the door.

“To be continued,” Violet Smith said as Sherlock made a big show of getting up to answer the door. John and Violet both ignored his performance. “John, could you fetch my glasses, please,” she pointed to the fake glasses on the table, next to the magazine that covered up her gun.

**

Violet had been right, Mrs. Hudson had produced a feast that could have ended world hunger. Only John tucked in. Sherlock, as usual, proclaimed he wasn’t hungry (but he kept filching fairy-cakes when he thought no one was looking). Violet ate, but lightly, taking huge helpings of salad and unbuttered bread and a very small portion of the shepherd’s pie.

“I had a feeling you were one those girls who ate rabbit food,” Mrs. Hudson said, proud of herself for picking out something Miss Smith would like.

I’m an American girl who hates English food Violet thought as she smiled demurely at Mrs. Hudson. In the seven years she had lived in England, she had lost almost fifty pounds… a far cry from the original fifteen she had wanted to lose when she first arrived in London.

There were times she thought she would have gladly committed murder for a medium-rare steak, sizzling right off the grill with homemade potato salad and an ice-cold Coors Light. ‘Merica she thought ruefully as she got up to help Mrs. Hudson with the clearing –up.

“One more cup of tea, boys?” Mrs. Hudson asked before switching the kettle on anyway as Violet started washing the dinner plates.

Sherlock made a horse-like sound of impatience but John missed her maternal ministrations and deep down, he knew Sherlock appreciated her mothering.  “Oh go on then, Mrs. Hudson.”

One cup turned into four and it was nearly nine o’clock before Mrs. Hudson realized she was going to miss one of her television programs if she didn’t go. “Don’t get used to this, I’m not the house-keeper,” Mrs. Hudson scolded the “Baker Street Boys” and “The Other Woman” (as the self-proclaimed “Sherlockians” had started calling her as they shared those blurry pictures of her hanging on to the Millennium Bridge for dear life on Pinterest, Tumblr and Instagram).

“We will never take this for granted,” Violet said, kissing the older woman on the cheek before opening the front door for her. John frowned and hoped Violet’s affection was genuine.  

Sherlock knew it was.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson flushed with pleasure, patting Violet on the arm. To Sherlock, she said sternly “I like her, young man. Don’t let her get to anywhere.”

“You are not the first person to make that statement, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said laconically.

“You three have a nice night. Shame Mary couldn’t make it.”

The three of them made up a polite fiction about how John and Mary’s house was being fumigated for ants and because Mary had to be at work early in the morning, it was more convenient for her to stay with Molly, since her flat was closer to the hospital.

John worried about how easy lying came to him now. That was not good.

“Yes, well, some other time then,” John said lightly.

“Good evening, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, drifting towards his music stand and violin.

Mrs. Hudson recognized a dismissal when she heard one. She only smiled, nodded her head and said good-night, happy that all three of her “boys” had found someone special. John and Mary, Greg and Molly and now, Sherlock and Violet. Thank God… he had been too lonely for too long… she thought as she made her way down to her flat, trying to hurry so she wouldn’t miss too much of her favorite program.

Violet shut and locked the door behind the sweet landlady. Slowly and stiffly, she started walking towards the couch, where Gladstone laid, his dark brown eyes darting back and forth from Sherlock, John and his mistress.

“Take a bath,” John sank into “his” chair. “Have a good long soak.”

Violet crossed her arms, irritated “Is that how you think all women unwind? A nice bubble bath?”

As Sherlock snorted while tuning his violin, John rolled his eyes. “Jesus, God. No. I think, as much trauma your body has endured in the past few days, your muscles are one giant cramp. You can barely walk right now. Luke-warm bath, add some Epsom salts, unless Sherlock used them all up in his last experiment.”

“In the kitchen, under the sink, next to the rib shears and the metacarpal saw.”

Violet paused “Why do you have autopsy tool-” she started to ask but stopped herself. “Never mind, I don’t really care...”  

As she shuffled towards the kitchen, John called out “I picked up some mild muscle relaxers for you too. Non-habit forming, but they’ll help you sleep.”

“Thanks,” she said, slowly heading towards the kitchen. Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin and inexplicitly started playing Bach’s Chaconne. It was John’s least favorite songs in Sherlock’s repertoire, so dark and discordant. 

Over the squalling of the violin, Violet called from the kitchen “If you want to talk to Sherlock alone, all you have to do is say so, John.”

John could feel Sherlock smirking behind him.

He felt distinctly outnumbered.

“OK, fine,” John finally said after Violet finished rummaging around in the kitchen and had secluded herself in the master bath (not the tiny half-bath connected to Sherlock’s bedroom). “I do want to have a private word with you.”

“About?” Sherlock said, lowering his violin and bow, clasping them behind his back, fighting the urge to take his violin and hit John repeatedly upside his head with it. As much as it soothed him to have John under his roof again, even for a brief respite, he most certainly did not want to talk at the moment. He wanted, no, needed to think. To calculate exactly how to stop the money from flowing into the Rouge’s coffers, to flush Jack Woodley out of hiding and to expose the Earl of Winchester for the depraved monster he really was… without exposing his own secrets, of course. 

John reached down and held up the chemist’s bag “Your prescriptions? For the hives? That I filled out for you three days ago? That you never picked up?”

“Oh, pah,” Sherlock spat in disgust, putting his violin and bow down “I’m fine.”

“Right, that’s why I had to give you an injection after “Miss Smith” had called the media to meet us outside her office,” John called after him as Sherlock stalked into the kitchen. “And don’t tell me last night was the last break-out you had.  The tube I used last night was nearly empty and I know you already used up samples I gave you when you first started having this problem.”

“So, you’re rifling through my bathroom now,” Sherlock grumbled, carrying with him the tray of fairy-cakes Mrs. Hudson had left behind. Wretched woman knew sweets and cakes were his weakness… Sentiment and now sugar threatened to slow him down. Unacceptable.

“Like you’ve never gone through my possessions when I lived here…. Or hers,” John tilted his head towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “By the way, have you gone online lately? It’s only a matter of time the paparazzi show up here again, only this time to get a snap of the Great Detective’s Mystery Lady, instead of you.”

“Well, she is far more photogenic than me,” Sherlock conceded, picking apart a fairy cake instead of eating it. ”She has pretty eyes, Violet…” He licked the pink icing off his long fingers.

John stalled slightly at that comment. “Did you… actually compliment the way she looks?”

“Just making an observation, John.”

“You…” he said slowly. “You like her.”

“Of course I like her,” Sherlock said, confused. “She’s intelligent, not as intelligent as me, of course, but she’s practical. She almost has complete control of her emotions, although she does let her temper get the better of her at times. She’s interesting.”

“No, no, no, what I meant was you fancy her.”   

Now Sherlock flared up, acting like John just threw a bucket of poisonous snakes at him. “WHAT? No. Honestly, has marriage turned your brains into mush, John?” he huffed and puffed, put the tray of little cakes on the table next to his chair. He crossed his arms tight against his chest, made a foul face and fumed, then unconsciously searched his trouser pockets for cigarettes and a lighter “Fancy her. As if I’m some schoolboy with a crush.”

 John’s lips twitched Well you’re acting like a schoolboy with a crush right now he thought.

“No. I’m not,” Sherlock snapped, as if he could read John’s mind (when all he did was correctly interpret the mischievous twinkle in John’s eyes) “AM NOT acting a schoolboy with a crush.”

“Whatever you say, Sherlock,” John said angelically.  

“Sometimes I really despise you John.”

“No you don’t,” John said sweetly. “You threw yourself off the roof of the hospital to save me. You dove into a bonfire to save me.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, paused then shut it again. “Damn.”

“And since I’m your best friend, and you’ll do anything for me-”

First Violet lectured him about John, now John was teasing him about Violet. This was intolerable. I’m going to murder the pair of them in their sleep tonight, Sherlock decided viciously. Make it look like an accident then I’ll move to the Southwest in America and research the migration path of the killer bees. Yes. Excellent plan.

“You are pushing your luck, John Watson.”

“-you’ll start taking the medication I prescribed for you.”

“I don’t want to take anyth-“

“They’re not narcotics,” John explained. “One is an epinephrine syringe, in case an outbreak gets so bad your throat does start swelling shut, don’t scoff at me, Sherlock, anaphylaxis is  a real possibility. The shot is just for dire emergencies,” John opened the white chemist’s bag, started digging around. “I got you some more of the prescription strength cortisone salve and I also got you,” he took out a pill bottle and opened it. Shaking out two pills, he said “These oral allergy meds. They’re not narcotics,” he repeated himself, seeing the mulish look on Sherlock’s face. “You won’t get addicted, you won’t feel high and you won’t feel sleepy. Take two everyday as a preventive measure.” He held the pills out to him.

“What? Right now?”

“Right now, let’s go,” he said in his sternest “Dr. Watson” voice.

“No.”

“I’ll grow the moustache back if you don’t.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Fine,” he groused. “If you insist,” he got up from his seat and snatched the pills from John’s hand, appearing to dry-swallow them.

“You know the drill,” John said calmly. “Show me.”

Fuming, Sherlock held his hands up. Ta-da. Then he opened his mouth to show John he hadn’t tucked the pills in between his teeth and cheek or under his tongue.

Oh, such wonderful memories of hospitals and rehab clinics that little drill triggered… John gets murdered first… slowly… Sherlock decided, dropping down in his chair in an absolutely filthy temper now. He reached for a fairy cake, took a bite, frowned then beckoned Gladstone. The dog bounded off the couch and inhaled the sweet treat in one bite.

As Sherlock wiped evidence of pink icing off the dog’s nose, he sniped at John “Could you at least bring me a cup of tea after subjecting me to that humiliating dog-and-pony show?”

John smiled “Sure, Sherlock,” he said as he got up. “Least I could do.”

But John only made one cup of tea. A cup he had nearly finished when Violet finished with her bath. She wore Sherlock’s blue dressing gown, tightly belted around her waist, the hem dragging on the floor. With her hair bundled up in a bun on top of her head, she still looked tired but did not move as stiffly as she had earlier.

“So, are we going to talk strategy first or explain The Sign of Fou-” she stopped talking when she noticed Sherlock sprawled out limply in his chair, arms and legs splayed out wide, his head tilted to one side, his eyes closed. “Uh…” she pointed to the tall, thin and apparently unconscious man. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” John said, placing his cup on the table next to his chair. “I drugged him,” he said baldly.

“Oh,” Violet raised her eyebrows, taking a better look at Sherlock. Then she slowly tiptoed up to him and poked him in the chest, hard. When he didn’t move, she tapped him on the nose. When he still didn’t move, she shook her head “Wow… OK. You two have a really messed up relationship,” she turned to face John.

And saw him holding up his mobile phone. He pressed the “Play” button displayed on the touch screen. Then she heard her own voice, tinny in the recording, coming out of the phone:

“… Clear his damn name. He’s your friend. Dead or alive, he’s still your friend so you owe him at least that.”

John let the rest of the recording play. When it ended, Violet furrowed her brow and shook her head. “I don’t understand…”

“Neither do I,” John said, putting the mobile down. Then he lifted his gun with his other hand.

And pointed it at her.

Shit.   

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Violet said in a cool voice that hid her growing panic.

“Don’t,” John said, shaking his head, a small smile on his lips, his normally gentle blue eyes glacial. “I’ve lived with The Master of Mind Games for almost two years, been close friends with him for far longer than that. Whatever fairy tale you plan on spinning for me won’t work. I’m immune,” he un-clicked the safety and rested his finger lightly on the trigger, praying she won’t call his bluff.

Violet crossed her arms and studied the man sitting calmly, pointing a loaded gun right at her heart.  It’s always the quiet ones, she thought wryly. Military physician is what the research had told her. Her mind flew as she re-examined her profile for John: Introverted, not shy. Willing sidekick to Sherlock, the good man behind the Great Man. Loyal to a fault. Quiet. Dry sense of humor. Sweet-natured, thoughtful. Steady during a crisis. PTSD survivor. Loved his wife and his best friend, but estranged from the rest of his family who continue to enable his alcoholic sister. Caring doctor (when he actually practiced medicine that is…) Talented writer … described by most people as a kind, gentle man…

…but she also remembered a hushed rumor floating around, about how the random shooting of the homicidal cabbie Sherlock confronted back in 2010 might not have been so random…

I also noticed a very strange indentation on your right index finger. John has a similar one, from pulling a gun trigger repeatedly.

Violet looked at the Great Detective, drooling in his drug-induced slumber, head lolling limply to one side. Gladstone must be shut up somewhere in a closet or John’s old room, otherwise he would have raced to her rescue. She was at John’s mercy, which looked to be minimal.

“All I have to tell him is you tried to run away and attacked me when I tried to stop you,” John said evenly. “You did say you had planned on bolting and going deep undercover… Although I don’t think you’ll get very far wearing only a dressing gown.”

“If you listened to the entire recording,” Violet said, her voice controlled and firm, “You would have known I tried to get The Met’s attention before The Fall and that I gave Moriarty up, posthumously, of course, but still…”

“Yeah, you did, which probably put a huge target on your back,” John said. “As secretive as you say they are, they probably didn’t like that you talked. You might owe them a Fall… either yours or his. By the way you and Sherlock described this Rouge, they might not care either way.”

“What about the fact that I saved your partner’s life this morning? Doesn’t that count for something?” Violet still kept her voice calm, still kept applying to John’s reason.

“Maybe you only saved it for someone else to take,” John replied, his voice hardening. “There’s been too many times someone has tried to kill him. There have been too many people pretending to give a damn about him only to stab him when his back is turned.”

Violet closed her eyes. He would, she realized, he would absolutely kill her if he thought she meant Sherlock harm. This man is more dangerous than Mycroft Holmes or Jim Moriarty Violet thought, her heart starting to race. Maybe he was bluffing… maybe he wouldn’t pull the trigger…

… that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t write about her, post about her on his damned blog for all the world to see. If that happened, the United States might change its mind about letting her live.

Not to mention some other organizations she had managed to piss off in the last seven years.

Then there was also what family she had left… still living in New York… where an active Rouge Dirigé Liguecase cell still existed…

“What do you want to know,” she conceded defeat.

“The truth,” John said.

“I am telling the trut-”

“No,” John interrupted. “You’re telling bits and pieces of the truth to keep him interested. As long as he finds you interesting, he protects your backside. You said it yourself. The minute he gets bored, you’re fucked.”

Except there may now be other reasons that may prolong Sherlock’s interest in her, but John decided to withhold that piece of information for now.

“So I’ve been informed,” Violet said. “Listen, I told you everything about the Rouge, I pretty much showed you where your friend was during those two years except for the time he spent in Holland and Sweden before he came back to the UK and you already knew he had been in India and Thailand. That part was all over the goddamn Internet thanks to all the conspiracy nut-jobs. He-” she gestured towards the drooling detective. “Has ALL of my research now, including the real accounting books I created that shows where the dirty money has been-“

“No,” John interrupted again. “I don’t want to know about the Rouge. I want to know about you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I want to know if you’re for real. I want to know how much of “Violet Hunter” is for real, because we all know “Violet Smith” is a damned lie.”

The Woman Violet remembered, sitting down on the couch, her hazel eyes zeroed in on the gun John kept trained on her. She knew who Irene Adler was. For a brief time, they had both worked for Jim Moriarty, although their paths never crossed. Still, The Woman was the stuff of legend…

John watched Irene Adler lead Sherlock on and thinks I’m going to do the same…

Like I could turn on that walking Popsicle… I’d have better luck seducing Mycroft. Or the damned Queen of England.

Besides, I know who really has a hold on his heart, don’t I?

“What makes you think pointing a gun at me is going to produce the truth?” she asked.

“Because you fought too hard for too long to stay alive, you’re not going to give up now.”

The silence stretched through the flat. Violet could hear the traffic outside, the leaky tap from the kitchen and Sherlock’s heavy breathing. God, John what did you give him? Horse tranquilizers? She wondered where in the hell her dog was, but it didn’t matter… John still had her dog whistle. Plus he might shoot Gladstone if the dog tried to attack him.

“Fair enough,” Violet finally said. “Where should we begin?”

“How much of what you told me at the café was a lie?” John said. “I’m guessing the tutoring bit was bollocks?”

“I do tutor rich snot-nosed little brats when I need extra money, but I didn’t have an appointment last Saturday, I lied to wrap up our little coffee date,” Violet admitted. “What I told you about my childhood and my parents was true. I was born on a military base in Germany. I did spend most of my childhood in Europe moving from base to base until my dad was killed in Desert Storm. My mother did die in a car crash. She really did lose control of the car. Sherlock was right. She was on her way to pick me up from school because I was sick, so I did blame myself for a long time for her death. I was six when it happened, my brother, Michael, was two.”

“Can you verify any of that?”

Violet nodded. “The FBI can erase me, but not Michael or his wife and child not to mention her family. Google Major Anthony Hunter and Vanessa Connor-Hunter, you’ll find everything, their obituaries and,” she shrugged. “Everything. Mom died while we were still in Germany. Like I said, I was six when she died and fifteen when Dad did. Sherlock and I have the exact same birth date, so there’s your timeframe. My brother and I were sent back to live on our grandparents’ farm in Indiana… again, Sherlock was right, my real accent. It’s a dead-giveaway that my parents were Midwestern and I lived in the rural Midwest during my teens.”

“You went on to the FBI and your brother went on to become a journalist? That true too?”

Violet nodded. “I did undergrad at St. Francis, in New York, grad at the University of Virginia. Psych and Criminal Justice, minored in languages. Went to Quantico, was assigned to the New Mexico field office, was reassigned to DC and the rest is history.”

“Not quite,” John said, lowering his gun, but keeping the finger on the trigger. “Tell me how you’ve survived all these years. Tell me about working with Jim Moriarty.”

“OK,” Violet said, sensing there was more. “And…?”

“Tell me how you found about Sherlock and…” he swallowed “And what happened to him as a child and why Mycroft covered it up, why he told Sherlock not to tell their parents.”  

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she folded her hands on her lap. “This seems kind of drastic.” And out of character but she kept that opinion fiercely to herself. 

“You’re the profiler,” John’s voice was clipped. “You already know he’s never going to tell me.”

That is true, Violet thought, studying the gun intently. Sherlock’s ego won’t allow himself to be anything but brilliant in John’s eyes. His past takes some of the shine away…

Violet looked up at the ceiling, studying a water stain caused by one of Sherlock’s less successful experiments.  Then she looked at John, right in his eyes. “I couldn’t prove it, but I knew Jack Woodley was the traitor. As we stayed in that crappy hostel, I knew he planned on separating us and killing us off, one by one… I was already planning on running and heading to an embassy, any embassy that would take me. Obviously I couldn’t go to an American embassy but…my partner, Steven Morgan had different plans…”  

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: Slow. Steady. Silent.

 

13 May 2008
Somewhere in London…
Tuesday morning
2:22 AM

Terror and uncertainty bled into dread and boredom briefly punctuated with panic.

For a country with stricter gun laws than the United States, there were quite a few gun shots throughout the night in this part of town.

That was the only bit of excitement since they had been there. There was really nothing to but try to sleep on uncomfortable cots with itchy flea-infested blankets (Violet had been right about the bugs), drink bad coffee and eat the meager provisions Violet and Bear had bought. Nothing involved cooking, energy bars, dried fruit and nuts, crackers and cookies.

No, Violet corrected herself as she stared at something called a “Jammy Dodger” and found herself pinning for an Oreo. Not cookie. Biscuit. 

She was giving herself a crash course on British slang and accents during her shift for the night watch.  There was a small radio playing softly, but the signal was absolute crap. She tried to remember everything she had heard during the conference and on television (telly). She focused on pronunciation. Enunciate, enunciate, enunciate she told herself. Round your vowels. Keep consonants crisp and clean. Try to keep your Midwest nasalness out of your voice. Don’t get cute and go for Soho or Cockney. Keep it simple. 

Violet put the cookie (biscuit) down. Looked at her team, looked at her friends. Looked at the life that lay ahead of her. Examined her options, realized that all the available options to her, to be blunt, all sucked.

Jack’s “angel” came through early this morning with the fake IDs as well as employment.

Bill Curak was now “Father Williamson”, an Anglican priest. Vinnie Van Sant became “John Vincent Harden”, a truck driver (Lorry Violet reminded herself.) Dixie turned into “Mrs. Dixon”, Father Williamson’s housekeeper and Robert “Bear” Carson transformed into Robert Carruthers, an up-and-coming insurance salesman and a Canadian transplant.

“I know jack shit about insurance,” Bear had said.

“So do most insurance agents,” “Father Williamson” had joked and there had been quiet, nervous laughter.

Violet looked at her new identity card. Now she was supposed to be Lavender Abbott, a private music teacher. She couldn’t remember the last time she touched a piano. Steve was now Stephan McMillan, a translator. Made sense.

They were all supposed to start leaving in shifts the coming morning, starting with “Mrs. Dixon” and “Father Williamson” since Dixie was rapidly unraveling. Somehow, Jack managed to produce prescription-strength tranquilizers and now Dixie slept like the dead.

Violet repressed a shudder. The plan had been orchestrated by both Bear and Jack. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like being separated. Divide and conquer she thought and this time she didn’t repress a shudder.

She also didn’t like it how Jack slipped in and out as he pleased. The last time she had been out of this stuffy, smelly room was the walk she took with Bear to buy food three, no four days ago.

She rubbed her eyes, reached for the cookie (Biscuit she reminded herself) on the table, then stopped again. She hadn’t had an appetite since she took flight.

“Hey, Hunter?”

Violet rolled her head towards the whisper. Her partner, Steven. (Stephan McMillan, she corrected herself.) “Hm?”

“Vashi uroki russkogo yazyka idet khorosho?”  (Are your Russian lessons going well? He had asked her in flawless Russian.)

Violet laughed bitterly. “Ne plokho,” she said haltingly. “Obsuzhdeniye medlenno,” (Not bad, she had responded. Talk slow.)

Very slowly, in Russian, he asked “Do you trust the Silver Fox?”

Violet looked over her shoulder. Bear had left with Jack that night. It was just Bill (Father Williamson, she corrected herself), Diesel (John Vincent Harden) and Dixie (Mrs. Dixon).

Then she looked at Steven (Stephan) and shook her head slowly.

“We need to leave then. Right now,” he said, still in Russian. Seeing her give her three friends and colleagues a stricken glance, he said, still in Russian “We can’t help them if we’re dead.”

Violet nodded and got up from her seat at the table. She gobbled the cookie (biscuit) for the simple fact that she didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. Stealthily she crept to her cot and gathered her coat, scarf and purse. Her Blackberry and flash drives were always in her jeans pocket except when she took the briefest of showers and then, she locked the tiny bathroom’s door.

Shame heavy in her heart, she pilfered every single pound Dixie had left in her purse. I’m sorry…  she thought, trying to justify her actions by telling herself at least she had left her all of her American money. Plus she knew Bill would protect her.

Steven had already slipped out the door when Violet shook Bill awake. “Steve heard something outside,” she breathed into his ear. “He’s going outside to check the perimeter. I’m going to keep an eye on the hallway.”

“OK,” Bill groggily sat up. “Should I wake up the other two?”

“Dixie is out cold. Let Diesel sleep. It’s probably nothing,” she reassured him.

Violet slipped out the door and heard Bill lock it behind her. He’d sit at the grimy table, waiting for the secret knock letting him know all was clear and to let her back in.

That knock would never come.

Violet met Steve in the darkened stairwell and they hurried down it, through the tiny reception area, out the door, around the corner of the building and down the alley. Running.

Shivering and sick with fear again, when they finally came to a stop, Violet asked while panting for breath “I hope you have some sort of plan.”

“I do,” he said. “Jack’s not the only one with angels,” he grabbed her hand. “Come on, this way.”

This time, they found a tube station, a very derelict tube station, with transients and undesirables staring at them. Violet looked down, but felt pretty confident, after wearing the same clothes she had been since last Friday, she looked at least like new homeless and therefore not so out of place.

Steven bought tokens and they clamored on-board, neither one of them saying anything. Eventually, Violet found herself in another part of London, another part not advertised to the tourists. But this neighborhood just looked terribly poor and rundown, not desperate and terrifying as the one they had been in previously.

When Violet and Steve got off their train, there had been a street performer, a shabby looking guitarist with the stereotypical bad British teeth plus long hair and a straggly beard that belonged on an aging hippie, not a twenty year old boy. He didn’t appear to notice them, but as he finished his set and Steve tossed in some coins, he looked up from his guitar and said “A’right then?” Steve had nodded and the boy said “Help me pack up then, would’ja?”

Violet then found herself helping carrying a guitar case and loading up a very battered van the boy obviously lived in. However, it wasn’t too bad, considering where they had come from. It was clean and warm and mobile.  There was a very narrow cot with pillows and blankets. Underneath the cot was a duffle bag that must have contained what clothes and personal items the boy owned. There was also an ice-chest full of fizzy drinks that the boy told them to help themselves to what they wanted. Violet recognized some of the names of the sodas and some she didn’t. There were also some beers but her stomach felt too uneasy to indulge even though she would have loved to be dead-drunk and forget about all this insanity for just a moment.

The boy drove until he found a location he apparently deemed safe, behind some abandoned buildings near the Thames. “Probably got loads of questions,” he said after he shut the van down and crept in back where Violet and Steve sat, cross-legged.

Despite the terrible teeth and the even worse grammar, Violet could tell the boy possessed a razor sharp intellect. “Call us the Homeless Network, the fuzz does” he said proudly, pulling out a very state-of-art lap top from underneath the driver’s seat.

“Diesel,” Steve said simply to Violet as explanation.

“Of course,” Violet said. Of course Diesel would have studied up on anything and everything gang related in London before agreeing to fly over.

“Most time, coppers don’t bother us, even use us. We don’t do nothin’ bad. Not really. We sell information.” his face darkened. “But some muppet started selling dope on the side. Didn’t check the product he was selling neither. Sold a hot dose to one of our biggest buyers, he did.”

“Buyers?” Violet’s brow furrowed.

“Information buyers,” the boy said, the pride back in his voice. “But now the fuzz been crawling up our arseholes ‘cause this tosser nearly killed one of our best customers. He was more’n just a customer, really. Helped us get organized, he did. After he got out of hospital they up and shipped him straight to rehab. Nobody’s seen ‘im since. And now coppers think we deal drugs instead of just information so business been slow,” he shook his head as he opened his laptop.

“We need to disappear,” Steve said bluntly. “At the very least, we need to get the hell out of London. I was told you can help us.”

Violet studied the boy intently. “Is this a cash only business or will you trade information for information?”

The boy looked up from his laptop, his face eerie in the glow from the screen. “Depends on how good the info is,” he said casually but Violet saw the greed in his eyes.

“How do I know you won’t give us up, rat us out to the people we’re hiding from?” Violet demanded. “What guarantees do you have for our safety? Since you sell information and all?”

The boy shrugged, his attention back on his computer. “Again, depends on how good the information is. Or how big of a spender you are.”

Violet leaned forward “Has the Homeless Network ever thought about international expansion?”

She had his full attention again. “Where?”

“New York and DC” she said. “I can get you in touch with a reporter for the New York Times. He’s a big believer of quid pro quo and protecting his sources at all costs. And he has sources in several American government agencies, including the FBI.”

The boy was practically drooling onto his keyboard. “First things first, we need to get you fake IDs. You’ll never be able to afford passports plus the good ones take too long,” he started typing furiously. “You’ll have to change your looks a bit. I think you,” he said to Violet “Could go ginger. Your boyfriend could dye his hair black.”

Neither Violet nor Steve corrected the boy.

He continued to talk and type “Don’t forget to do your eyebrows, people always forget that bit. Dead giveaway it is. I can get you to a safe place to crash for a bit, lay low until we get your new identities set up. Got a girl who can get you a change of clothes, but there’s a price,” he eyed Violet’s wristwatch, peeking out below the cuff of her filthy coat.

Without hesitation, Violet slid it off and tossed it to the boy. “Where is a place we can go that we can blend in? A small town is out of the question.”

“Birmingham’s good,” the boy said. “Catch a train to Cheltenham then transfer to Birmingham.”

“Two more things,” Violet said as Steve leaned back, watching her work, slightly awestruck.

“Go on and hand me a coke, would’ja?” the boy asked. Steve complied, dug around in the ice-chest, wincing at the chill of the melted ice. He handed the boy the drink, who said “Cheers,” and “What else?”

“I need to get a message to the New York reporter, to let him know his sister is alive but do not look for her until further notice. It would risk the lives of his wife and baby was well as his own.”

“Got it. What else?” the boy while Steve looked at Violet in horror.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asked lowly.

“If I don’t tell him to back off, he’ll keep digging which could get him killed,” Violet insisted. “I know him.” And I know what I told him, she thought guiltily.

“And you,” she said to the boy, “I want everything you can dig up on Mycroft Holmes,” Violet said, her lips in a grim line. “Nothing is insignificant or too small of a detail.”

The boy smiled, showing all of his rotten teeth. “Is that all? Candy from a baby… but what’s in it for me?”

Violet locked her eyes with his and said very slowly “What would you like to know about the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase?”

The boy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking?”

Violet pulled her Blackberry out of her back pocket. “Start downloading,” she said, handing it to him. “And get us the hell out of London.”

Two days later, Violet and Steve (newly re-branded as “Viola de Merville” and “Cyril Morton”) left for Birmingham. They took a bus instead of a train.

Six months after that, the body of Dorothy Sweeney was found in a bathtub. Suicide.

So they said. 

**

12 July 2009
Birmingham, England
Sunday
9:37 PM

She shouldn’t have done it.

She knew it was dangerous.

She couldn’t resist.

It was one phone call. On a pre-pay cell, or mobile as the Brits called it.

She had needed to hear his voice.

And he had ended up dead six weeks later.

Kidnapped and killed on assignment for The New York Times. Embedded journalist. Iraq.

So they said.

Steven (or rather Cyril, as he was now known as) had stumbled across the story completely by accident while reading the news online, trying to keep up on American current events. He had tried to hide the story from her, minimize the window on the secondhand laptop he had bought at a pawnshop when they first arrived in Birmingham. She forced him to show her.

She still didn’t know how she had ended up on the hardwood floor. Or for how long she had howled as she felt something good and clean and pure disappear permanently from what was left of her life. She vaguely remembered Steven shoving a mug of some cheap liquor in her hand and holding her tight, promising her that everything was going to be OK.

She had gotten stone-drunk and passed out, curled up in a ball right on the spot where she had collapsed, where her world truly ended, where hope died for things to go back the way they were before she got on that goddamn flight to England. When she came to the next morning, her throat was raw from screaming and her eyes puffy and sore from crying. Her stomach and head hurt from the cheap booze.

Other than that, she felt nothing.

Under any other circumstances, normal circumstances, someone would have recommended psychological treatment, therapy, medication.

But the dead don’t need help and according to the United States of America, for all intensive purposes, Violet Hunter was dead.

She certainly looked like a corpse, those first months after Michael’s death. In three months, she lost over thirty-five pounds, then another ten after that. She started chain-smoking again, a habit she had kicked right before she went to Quantico. She had dyed her hair a nondescript brown, which only increased her pallor. Her hazel eyes looked like dirty pennies. Dull, useless.

She went to the work that paid her money (waitressing, cash, under the table) then went home to the little flat she shared with her “boyfriend” and did the work that would expose the bastards who trapped her on this godforsaken island.

And had gotten her brother killed.

Helpless, Steven watched her sit for hours in front of the window in a stupor, only moving to take a drag from her cigarettes. She barely spoke, only when absolutely necessary. Her grief was tangible, living thing, a third roommate. Sometimes he wondered if he’d find her the bathtub some morning, with her veins opened up, like the police had found “Mrs. Dixon”.  He anguished over finding a reason for Violet to live. He hoped his Hunter was still in there somewhere, inside that walking dead girl, buried deep down under the misery.

After all, she was still researching the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase and investigating Mycroft Holmes. That was something, right?

In fact, a few days ago she had actually muttered “Oh hooray, Little Brother is clean and sober, good for him,” with a touch of her former disparagement.

“What?” startled, Steven had looked up from his computer, surprised to hear her voice. Also was surprised to hear her use her American accent. 

She had been sitting in the ratty chair she had claimed as her own when they moved into the little flat. It was where she liked to sit, in front of the window, where she could watch the world moving on without her. “Mycroft’s little coke-nose brother,” she gestured to the newspaper she had been reading “Starting his own private investigation services.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not important,” she had muttered. “It doesn’t help us.”

And she hadn’t spoken a word to him since.

Steven had enough. Tonight, he would force the issue, whether she liked it or not.

“OK,” he finally said, throwing his pen down on the scrubbed table. Two days had past after she had shared the little tidbit regarding Mycroft’s useless brother. After hearing her broken voice, the heavy silence irked him. “I’m starved, it’s late, I’m going to order Chinese and we’re going to have a talk, a real talk Hunter,” he said sternly to the bony woman curled up in her ratty chair, chain-smoking, staring out the window. “You have got to rejoin the land of the living. I need my partner. You’re not the only one who lost someone when we got fu-“

“It’s Diesel,” she murmured, leaning forward, her forehead nearly touching the window pane. 

“What?”

Steven didn’t know what was more shocking. That she had spoke again or what she said.

“Look, it’s Diesel,” she said again, pointing, then shutting the curtains with a snap after Steven did as she asked. She then reached under her chair and produced a very illegal sidearm.

“Was he alone?” he asked. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Don’t know, it looked like it,” she checked the sights of her gun, un-safetied it and stood up, tucking it into the waistband of her khaki capris, pulling her tank top shirt over it. “But I won’t be able to tell for sure until he’s up here.”

There she is Steven thought grimly as he went to retrieve his own gun. Welcome back Hunter.  

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they waited for the inevitable tap on their door.

“It’s me,” a familiar deep voice intoned. “I’m alone. Open the door.”

Steven drew his gun, pointed it at the door, covering his partner. Violet crossed across the living room, slowly opened the door. Diesel slipped in, unshaven, with a battered backpack over one shoulder, his clothes filthy. He gave Violet bone-crushing hug. “Damn, girl, it is good to see you.” When he pulled away, his face registered the shock when he realized her extreme weight loss. “Jesus, honey…”

“Michael, they got to him,” she said sadly, but then she cracked the smallest of smiles. “And English food sucks.” After giving Diesel the once over, from the top of his graying head to the tips of his battered boots, she said to Steven, “You can put the gun down, he’s OK.” When Steven hesitated, she reminded him “Profiler…”

Or at least I used to be…

Steven lowered his weapon, clicked the safety back on and went over to hug Diesel as well. “Man, we missed you.” When they broke apart, he demanded “How’s Bill? What the hell happened to Dixie, did she just snap or-?”

Diesel held up his hands. “I’ll bring you up to speed but first… you got any food? I’ve been on the go for two days. Been a while since I saw my last meal. Sorry to be a mooch, but…”

“I’ll make a sandwich to tie you over while Steven orders Chinese… you were going to order Chinese, right?”

“Right,” Steven said, slipping into his “Cyril Morton” voice. “Take-away it is.”

“Damn,” Diesel said, impressed.

“Please,” Violet showed off her English accent. “Mine is far better.”

“And sexier,” he teased her.

Steven saw a bit of the green fire reigniting in her hazel eyes. Thank God, he thought. Diesel, seriously, you have no idea what you being here means to me….

She’s the only family I have left and vice-versa…  

After the food arrived, they sat cross-legged in the middle of the lounge. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of munching. Steven was pleased to see Violet eat two egg rolls and a little of the sweet-and-sour chicken. Normally, she just ate the egg drop soup and then announce she was full. Diesel however, ate as if it had been two weeks instead of two days since his last meal. “Sorry,” he apologized, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Violet shook her head. “S’OK Diesel. I’m just so glad to see you.” Tears unexpectedly sprang to her eyes. She felt shocked to the core about how much she really did miss him.

Actually, it shocked her she could actually feel anything. The past six months had been nothing but a frozen wasteland for her.

Michael is dead, she hated herself for thinking that. But she knew, as Diesel started to speak, it was time to face the truth… no. Time to feel this brutal truth, in all of its rawness and ugliness. Michael is dead… but I’m not. And I don’t want to die. Not here. I want to go home, I want to see my sister-in-law and meet my niece… but first, I want the Rouge to pay… I want Jack Woodley’s and the Earl of Winchester’s heads on silver platters...

A long overdue rage exploded in her chest and spread through her body, warming her… 

“Jack Woodley killed Dixie,” Diesel said, tears in his eyes now. “Made it look like a suicide.”

“I knew it,” Steven spat “That bastard.”

“That coward,” Violet said softly, but there steel behind her quiet words. You are going to die screaming Jack, I swear to God…

After all, I’m already dead, according to the United States… I died in a plane crash… I can do anything… I’m a ghost…  

“Where’s Bill?” Steven demanded.

“Holed up in the country somewhere, still doing the ‘Father Williamson’ bullshit,” Diesel’s eyes flashed, the tears gone. “He sold Dixie out, led Jack right to her.”

“No,” Steven said in disbelief but Violet said, her voice still raspy from disuse “Jack bribed him, didn’t he? He told him his parents would be taken care of for the rest of their lives.”

Diesel nodded, his face contorted in pain and rage. “Told him the Rouge would take care of his parents one way or another, either put them up in real nice retirement community or…” he shook his head.  “The bitch of it is, we don’t even know if Jack told Bill the truth. For all Bill knows, Jack could have had his parents dumped in some state-run hellhole, or worse.”

“Do we know why Jack is doing this?” Steven asked “Any motive?”

Diesel shook his head “Still trying to figure that out. I’m here on a diplomatic mission, actually.”

“Bear sent you,” Violet crumbled the fortune cookie but didn’t eat it. Or read her fortune, she knew what her immediate future held. “He wants us to come back to London.”

“Jack had him believing you and Steven were the rats since you ran off. Smartest thing you two did, actually. Take off like that. Wish I would have,” his brow furrowed. “Bear wants the two of you to come back and continue digging into Holmes.”

“I’m beginning to think Mycroft Holmes is a dead end,” Steven said but Diesel shook his head.

“Not Mycroft.”

“The younger brother?” Violet said incredulously “The burn-out?”

“Bear thinks we’ve underestimated the younger Holmes’ role in this mess.”

Violet shook her head “Even if he stays sober, he’s antisocial and arrogant, borderline personality disorder. He’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, I don’t see Mycroft entrusting government secrets to him.” Steven agreed.

“Bear thinks Little Brother is the missing link between Mycroft and the Earl,” Diesel said. “He’s been digging around a little. See, something happened that caused a falling-out between the Cullen-Culpeppers and the Holmes either late ’83 or early ‘84 but it was hushed up by the Earl’s people. Whatever happened, it’s got something to do with the Holmes brothers and the current Earl when they were kids and it is buried deep. There’s no paper trail and no one will talk, except to say Holmes Senior and the previous Earl disagreed about how to run their business and parted ways after they sold out and made a collective fortune between the two of them.”

“When was the disagreement?” Steven asked, trying to establish a timeline.

“Roughly around the same time as the car accident that disfigured the current Earl,” Diesel reached for another egg roll, shoved it into his mouth.  

Violet did some mental arithmetic. During her research, she had discovered she and the younger Holmes brother had the exact same birthday: month, day, year. She had rolled her eyes at the coincidence and moved on. Now though… based on what little information she had uncovered on the Earl and Mycroft Holmes during this terrible year, she mused to herself while the men talked: …. I turned eight in 1984, which means so did he… Mycroft turned fifteen, the Earl sixteen… the Earl was three months shy of his sixteenth birthday when he was burned… in January of 1984…the official story was he was in a car accident coming home from a New Year’s Eve party… but the accident really happened AT the New Year’s Eve party…

… at the Holmes residence. While the adults rang in the New Year, the teenage boys and girls had their own party… someone had broken into Daddy Holmes’ liquor cabinet… Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, future Earl of Winchester, had gotten drunk and passed out in a guest room with a lit cigarette… so they said… oh yes, this story was buried deep. It had cost a small fortune to pay the Homeless Network for that tidbit…

But nowhere in the police report or hospital records did it mention where the littlest Holmes boy was that night… but she had been so focused on the elder brother, the younger brother’s whereabouts hadn’t even registered with her…

Her mind backtracked to a conversation she had with Bear prior to her fleeing London…

“What did you find out?”

“He likes little boys… this Lord Motherfucker has been abusing little boys since he was a teenager, OK?”

Her original findings had led her to believe the Earl’s perversions had started after the accident… at least, the first recorded accusation directed at young Heathcliff was in April of 1984 and the accident happened in January… naturally, the accuser had recanted after his parents had received an unexpected and completely coincidental financial windfall…

Violet didn’t believe in coincidences. At least, not ones like that.

And why exactly would a well-to-do family suddenly abandon a sprawling country manor for a modest house in London suburb after a small fire? The conflagration really only seriously burned the bed and the boy. The rest was just smoke damage.

What if… her mind raced as the men continued to talk. What if the Earl had gotten a taste for young boys… before the accident? If he had been friends with Mycroft, it would be logical to assume he had visited the Holmes’ estate well before that disastrous New Year’s party, right?

What if, during one of those visits, his eyes had landed on a small, socially inept boy, his good friend’s little brother?

Her previous recent words reverberated in her head.

Antisocial. Arrogant. Borderline personality disorder. Dangerous.

Shit.

The answer had been standing in front of them the entire time, wearing a long black coat.

“Bear’s right,” Violet interrupted, the full weight of her miscalculation hitting her like a baseball bat. “We fucked up. We need to focus on Sherlock Holmes instead of Mycroft.”

“We don’t have the resources,” Steven said. “Christ, we can barely afford rent and food here, how in the hell are we supposed to live and work in London?”

“Bear’s working on that for you,” Diesel reached behind him for his backpack. Unzipping it, he produced two prepaid cell phones and a plain envelope. “He said to call him as soon as you’re settled in London. There’s some cash and prepaid credit cards for you two. I’d get the hell out of Birmingham as soon as possible, like in the next few days.”

“Why?” Steven narrowed his eyes.

“I’m going to make a run for it,” Diesel said. “I’m going to try to get off this island.”

“Where are you going?” Violet asked. “Not the States, they’ll have you in handcuffs the minute your feet touch the ground.”

“No, I’m heading to Switzerland,” he said grimly, reaching into his bag again. “After you guys took off, I knew it was either Jack or Bill who was dirty. I went along with the whole “John Harden Vincent” thing until I saw my chance to slip under Jack’s radar and then I bolted. Been on the move ever since. Been digging shit up on him and the Rouge and well…” he produced a flash drive. “I’ve got a copy and now you have a copy. It’s everything I’ve gotten over the year. In case something happens to me-“

“Diesel, no, come on-” Steven said, but Violet held her hand for the flash drive.

Diesel put the drive in her hand and folded her fingers over it. Holding her hand he said “If this goes sideways, find a way to let my niece know I was the good guy after all.”

Violet nodded, feeling tears burning in her eyes for the first time since hearing about Michael’s death. “She already knows, Diesel,” she whispered.

“Hope so,” he said gruffly. Clearing his throat, he then said “You two, exercise extreme prejudice when in London. Trust no one. Bear’s playing both sides to get as much dirt on Jack and the Rouge as possible. Jack’s a silent partner in this small insurance firm and Bear’s still acting like he’s on board with Jack’s original plan, hiding in plain sight as a Canadian transplant. Bear finally realized the firm’s some sort of a front.”

“A front for what?” Steven asked.

“More importantly, for who,” Violet said, her voice still hoarse from disuse. “Remember, they’re just the consultants who tell the bad guys how to earn and how to cover it up.”

“Not sure yet, there’s no dirty money coming in yet, but Bear thinks it’s only a matter of time,” Diesel said solemnly. ”Right now, Jack’s more interested in me than the two of you, but probably should assume he wants you two dead.”

“Thanks for making me want to rush right back to London then,” Steven quipped.

Diesel did not crack a smile. “I’m not playing. If you’re attacked, kill them.”

“Understood,” Violet reached for a water bottle and took a sip. Her throat felt sore, not used to saying more than four or five words at a time. Even when she waited tables, the most she said was “What’ll you have?” and “Be back in a mo’.” 

Diesel checked his watch. “I better get going. Hopefully,” he pointed to the envelop lying next to the empty Chinese take-away boxes “That will cover dinner.”

“What are you going to do in Switzerland?” Steven asked.

“Whatever I have to do,” Diesel said, getting up off the floor. Violet and Steven did the same. Diesel gave Violet another fierce hug, then shook Steven’s hand, hugged him, clapped him on the back. “You two, stay alive. I’ll see you soon,” he grinned. “Don’t worry.”

“’Bye Diesel,” Violet stood on her tiptoes to kiss his grizzled cheek.

His eyes misted over again. He ran a hand over her hair. “’Bye girl,” he said softly and slipped out as silently as he slipped in.

Steven and Violet looked at each other, both of their eyes welling up. Silently, they acknowledged the truth: Diesel was on a suicide mission. There was no trip to Switzerland. His mission was to buy them time to get out of Birmingham.

And to pass on critical information before it fell into the wrong hands.

“I think we should leave tonight,” Steven discreetly dried his eyes.

“I agree,” Violet headed towards the closet where they both kept backpacks (rucksacks, Violet reminded herself) or “escape bags” as Steven called them. Only the barest essentials.

They didn’t even change clothes or clear up the mess from their impromptu meal. The only other things they grabbed were Violet’s handbag, Steven’s black messenger bag (what he kept his computer in) and their weapons.

Violet tucked Diesel’s flash drive (memory stick she told herself sternly Be British) into her bra. Reminiscent of the night they fled the hostel, Steven went first, checked the hallway. Violet slipped out after he told her it was clear.

Under the cover of darkness, they made their way to the train station instead of the bus station. Paying cash, they caught a late-night train back to Cheltenham. They’d have to figure how to get back to London from there.  

As Violet watched the lights of Birmingham fade behind her, she pulled the newspaper she had stuffed inside her rucksack. It was the paper from two days ago. She opened it to the section that ran the very small story about a “Consulting Detective”.

Consulting Detective, you have got be kidding me she thought as she studied the grainy photograph of the eccentric man. Despite the poor quality of the picture, he looked very young. Almost innocent.

Almost.

But he is young. And so am I. We’re only thirty-three. Our lives aren’t over yet, Violet thought as the train took her back to the city that had killed Special Agent Hunter.

***

25 February 2011
221 B Baker Street
Friday
7:15 AM

Here we go again she shivered and sighed, standing on the roof, watching a cab pull up in front of the building across the street from her. Third time’s the charm?

When she exhaled, her breath looked like smoke, making her long for a cigarette.

More because of boredom than a physical need; she had been watching Baker Street all night, all week, actually. The detective had not left the damn flat since for almost two weeks.

Violet could have screamed. 

Her employer would not be happy if she showed up empty-handed again.

Good, maybe he’d fire me, she thought grimly as she had waited for any type of movement from Baker Street. There was something about him, her newest “employer”, something that set her teeth on edge… she didn’t like him.

Of course, he said he was True IRA, so that may have had something to do with her unease.

She couldn’t place her finger exactly why he made her edgy. “Ciaran” looked and acted very unthreatening, a doe-eyed, pale-faced young man with a lilting Irish accent and sweet smile. He barely looked like he could kill a spider, much less pick up a gun… but there was just something… off about him.

She shook her head and told herself to focus, pulling out a very small pair of binoculars out of her coat pocket. The sun crept up in the distance, giving her just enough light to see…yes, there was Sherlock Holmes and there was John Watson coming out of the flat. Holmes was wearing that stupid coat of his, collar popped with an intricately knotted scarf around his scrawny neck. Dr. Watson tagged along behind, wearing a heavy parka and a thick woolen scarf instead of the usual black jacket he liked wearing. They seemed to be bickering about something or other…  Christ they are like an old married couple…

But a weight lifted from her chest as the arguing pair got into the waiting cab. Good, she thought as the cab pulled away. If both were leaving this early in the morning, they had probably been called by Scotland Year to come to some hideous crime scene. Sherlock Holmes, she had learned throughout the years, was not a morning person.

Holmes and Watson’s unpredictable schedule was the first challenge to breaking and entering Baker Street. Now the second challenge: the damned CCTV cameras. Big Brother was watching… literally.

Violet swung the rucksack onto her back and crossed to the roof, swinging a leg over the ledge, finding the ladder rungs to the fire escape and climbed down easily enough. She never did regain the weight she lost during her depression. However, every inch of her body was lean corded muscle now. Yoga kept her flexible, kickboxing kept her strong, both kept her alive.

Reaching the bottom of the fire escape ladder, Violet hopped down and knelt by the bins. She pulled the rucksack off her back again, popped the binoculars inside it then dug around until she found her iPad. Handy things, these new tablets were. So much better than the old Blackberry the feds had given her, she just wished the tablet was a bit smaller. Still…

One advantage working with Ciaran instead of the feds was that Ciaran had very deep pockets and he didn’t mind spending it on her… as long as she provided results, of course.

And I better find something to give to him she thought as she pulled up an application on the tablet. I’d hate to find out what’s lying underneath that Bambi-eyed exterior of his…

Over the three years since she became a ghost, she had become quite proficient with computers and gadgets. She was no savant and definitely not a hacker, but if someone gave her the basic tools and clear instructions, she was just as dangerous as any “hactivist”.

When she had expressed concerns to Ciaran about breaking into Baker Street because of the CCTV cameras, he had smiled and slid the iPad across the table to her. “There’s an app for that,” he had said in his whispery almost sing-song voice of his.

That was the moment when she had really felt “someone walking over my grave” as her grandmother used to say. Or what Bear called her “spidey sense” tingling or what Steven called “one of your wild hairs” kicking in. Whatever it was really called, woman’s intuition, sixth sense, gut instinct… something deep inside her screamed at her that without a doubt and without a shred of evidence… there was something seriously wrong with this young man.

Still, the app was handy. She was wise enough not to use it often, which was why this was only the third time she would be breaking into Baker Street in two years. A hacker had located a backdoor into the CCTV system, probably created by the original designer as some sort of “signature” or something, who knew for sure? 

But only an idiot would completely crash the system. However if someone just needed a simple distraction… like changing the angle of the cameras so they pointed at Speedy’s Café instead of the front door of 221B Baker Street. And leaving it pointed at the café just long enough so she could sprint across the street undetected… no one would notice that, or if they did, no one would really care. A complete system failure, well, that was just asking for all of Scotland Yard to show up on Baker Street, wouldn’t it?  

Of course, she couldn’t just walk through the front door of 221B Baker Street. That risked running into the dotty old landlady, who would most definitely tell Holmes and Watson about it. Violet hefted the rucksack back on, and pulled up the app on the iPad. She tapped on the screen, opening the app. An intricate keyboard appeared. She keyed in her password, which lead her to a different screen and another keyboard. From memory, she typed in the coding that would cause the cameras to move… just a smidge, to the right, pointing at Speedy’s for a few minutes instead of right at 221B Baker Street’s door.

Once she activated the sequence, she would have to run like hell. Not only was the window of time for the camera angles to change was very short, but the sun was also rising. Even if she wasn’t picked up on camera, someone might notice a thin woman in a black coat, black cargo pants and black boots running across the street.

However, Violet’s sprint went without a hitch. The second she finished entering the correct code, she bolted from her hiding spot like a sprinter. Her hand still clutched the iPad, her ponytail whipped back and forth as she ran around the back of the building, through the alley and across Baker Street, never stopping until she was behind 221B itself.

Her hair was still brown, but she got it professionally colored now, so it looked more natural and so much better than the box-dye job she had done herself in Birmingham. She dug into the other coat pocket and produced a black stocking cap and jammed it on her head, carefully tucking in her fringe and any curls that may have escaped her ponytail.

She then pulled out a pair leather gloves and put them on. Since the touch screen of the iPad depended on body heat and not actual pressure of her finger, she had to use her bare fingertips, which she didn’t like. Leaving fingerprints and all that. She tucked the iPad inside her coat and took a running leap to reach the rung of the fire escape ladder behind 221B. She grabbed it on her first try and pulled herself up, then started climbing, ignoring the groans and squeaks of the ancient metal ladder.

Once she was on the rooftop of 221B, she knelt down again, taking the rucksack off. She shrugged off her coat, staying low as possible, knowing by now, the CCTV cameras pointed at 221B again. She wished she could take the iPad with her, but it was too big, not very practical. And she needed to leave her gloves on. Holmes probably dusted the flat for fingerprints for fun. Wouldn’t surprise her if he did, at any rate.

Since she needed actual buttons instead of a touch screen, she took out her old Palm Pilot, Not as sexy as the new iPads, practically an antique already. But it got the job done.

She tucked that into one of the large cargo pockets, the only reason why she wore those ugly trousers. She also pocketed a slim digital camera and a USB cord just in case she had time to get into Holmes’ computer.  After zipping the cargo pockets closed, she stuffed the coat and iPad inside the rucksack then propped the bag up against the ledge of the roof, near the fire escape.

Slowly, she crept to the skylight and fiddled with the latch until window popped open. Lying on her belly, she reached under with her hands until she found the fold-out ladder. She did not lower the ladder though. She just held onto the rungs as she pulled herself over and through the open window, doing a little unimpressive flip and landing on her feet. She knew, from past experience, she could jump onto Watson’s bed, leap for the open window, grab the frame and then pull herself up. She had learned that one the hard way when Watson came home unexpectedly early from an unsuccessful date and she had to make a very speedy getaway.

She landed on the floor of Watson’s room quietly and neatly. Her boots were also black, low-heeled and soft-soled. Would be useless on a construction site, but perfect for her needs, she really couldn’t carry a gun while wearing a tight black T-shirt and the black cargo pants but a sheath for her knife fit just fine inside the boots.

She made a beeline for John’s chest of drawers, knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer.

During her observations of 221B Baker Street, Violet noticed whenever someone searched the flat, whether it was for a legitimate drugs bust or disgruntled criminal seeking revenge, the searcher made the job far more complicated than necessary. The searches were treated like it was a crusade for the Holy Grail.

If they ever stopped to think for a moment, to study the Great Detective instead of being in awe of him, they’d realize Holmes’ hiding places were actually not that complex. Just because the mark was a genius, it didn’t necessarily mean the hiding places would be complicated, clever riddles to solve. They were simply places where no one would think to look.

No one would think to look in John Watson’s bedroom.

Not the good doctor, he was a war hero, he was merely above-average intelligence. He was kind, he was polite, he was mild-mannered… John Watson wouldn’t have anything worth finding in his room… most people would just give Watson’s room a cursory glance then move along. 

Violet was not “most people”. She spent most of her adult life living in other people’s heads.

She carefully took out all the hideous jumpers, in various shades of red, navy blue and oatmeal, putting them in the same order she had found them in. Then she pulled the entire drawer out, flipped it over and peeled back the tape holding the SD memory card the underside of the drawer. She left the tape half hanging onto the drawer so she could put the card back exactly as she had found it.

Easy… when you did your research, that is.

She set the drawer aside then stood up. Fumbling because of her gloves, she awkwardly got the card out of its tiny plastic case. She pulled the ancient Palm Pilot out of her pocket, found the slot for memory cards and inserted it. Using the soft keys and scroll button on the old Palm Pilot, she began the download while keeping one ear finely tuned for the unwelcome sound of a door opening.

When the download was complete, Violet’s eyes widened when she realized whatever had been on that card had eaten up all the memory on her Palm Pilot.

Must be video, she thought as she took the card out of the Palm Pilot and pocketed it. She put the card back in the tiny plastic case then knelt down to tape it exactly as it had been. She popped the drawer back into place, then put Watson’s sweaters back and shut the drawer.

Got what I wanted Violet thought. Now let’s find something that will appease Ciaran…

After she and Steven had gotten settled in London they reached out to Bear. Meeting in a discreet Italian restaurant, he grimly told them Diesel had been killed and Jack Woodley had come back, claiming he had gotten in too deep with the True IRA. Now they wanted to use their firm to launder their dirty money. Jack claimed to be searching for Steven and Violet, for their own safety of course, and that it had been Bill aka “Father Williamson” all along who was dirty. In fact, “Father Williamson” was in cahoots with the IRA.

“How does that even make sense since he’s posing as an Angelican priest?” Violet had asked Bear two years ago when she and Steven sought him out after they arrived back in London.

“Jack told me we can use the IRA to get us closer to the Holmes brothers. He still thinks we’re working the Mycroft angle and Mycroft’s cronies have been lobbying for harsher measures against all terrorists, including the IRA and all of its offshoots,” Bear had said while inconspicuously handing a manila envelope to her under the table.

“What is this?”

“Don’t open it here,” Bear had said lowly. “They’re new ID cards for you. You’re Janice Carr now. Viola de Merville is dead. When the IRA contacts me to find someone to spy on the Holmes brothers, and they will, through Jack, I want you to be invisible. Use them to dig up whatever you can on the Holmes family that will concretely connect the Earl to the Rouge.”

I’m already a ghost, she had thought while Steven burst out “Wait, what? No. We are not using dirty money to fund our investigation. And we’re not using her.”

Bear had shaken his head and ran his big hand down his exhausted face. “I’m open to suggestions.” When Steven provided none, Bear had then said “This is the only funding we’re going to get for this. And she can get inside people’s heads. You can’t, not like she can. But you are one of the best investigators I have ever met. Let her get the information. You put the pieces together. Between the three of us,” Bear had now started nodding his head. “I think we can nail the bastards to the wall and when we do that then we’ll get to go home.”

Violet had believed him then. She wasn’t sure she still believed him now.

But since her options were limited and she was already in Holmes’ home for the third time now, Violet crept down the stairs towards the lounge, her boots making no sound.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, straining her ears. Then she slowly pushed the door open, wincing as it squeaked open.

Entering the main room of the flat, Violet racked her brains over what she could bring Ciaran. After their very first meeting, she knew she couldn’t give him anything compromising or damning.  After his third visit, she knew the young man was absolutely fixated on the detective. What he wanted dug up on Sherlock Holmes now had absolutely nothing to do with the IRA or The Cause. This was pure pathological, psychological obsession.

In her professional opinion, the kid was a nutcase.

Probably had built a shrine to the detective.

Probably wouldn’t be upset if she brought him a lock of his curly black hair.

Or his heart… preferably still bloody and beating.

She shuddered.

But he gave her a lot of money to snoop around and she desperately wanted to go home.

However, Steven had decided this was her last trip to 221B Baker Street. She had reluctantly agreed. To be fair, her last chat with Ciaran had truly terrified her, even though he had been courteous and polite as always. Sweet, really.  Pulled out a chair for her. Paid for her coffee and sandwich… acted as usual like a gentlemen, no a Boy Scout… no. A goddamn choir boy.

Except he kept tapping his fingers over and over on the table… being a pianist, Violet eventually recognized the keystrokes to Bach’s Partita No. 1 which left her thinking What the hell…?

Those slender fingers, twitching and flexing, moving along the edge of the table as if it was actually a keyboard had frightened her more than if he had pointed a loaded gun at her face.

He had been eerily calm during their last visit. He was always pleasant, but he acted like one who at last had made a very difficult decision and was finally at peace. A difficult decision like taking Mom off of Life Support, or putting Fluffy to sleep…

Or putting a gun barrel in your mouth and pulling the trigger.

Or experiencing what a suicide bomber must feel as the vest is strapped on before entering a crowded shopping center.

Violet had immediately told Steven of her fears and concerns after her last meeting with Ciaran. They argued late into the night, until, finally, Violet gave up, gave in and agreed with Steven. Their “investigation” was a lost cause. The Earl was too insulated. Jack was always two steps ahead. The younger Holmes brother was too eccentric, the older brother too cold. And now, they were up in it to their necks with the IRA and on top of that, their IRA contact was crazy.

Obviously time to cut their losses. Accept that they were never going to set foot in the United States again and make new plan, which was getting out of England somehow, someway.

But there was no way Violet could get out of this One Last Visit to Baker Street… So I have to be very careful what I give Ciaran, I can’t give him anything he can use against Holmes she reminded herself as she stood in the middle of the lounge, taking in the skull on the fireplace mantle, the yellow smiley face spray-painted on one of the wall next to the bullet holes, the god-awful wallpaper, some kind of game board pinned to the wall with a knife, an ugly gold Good Luck cat statue from Chinatown, that weird headphone-wearing cow head thing hanging on the other wall, the Union Jack pillow in one of the chairs, all the books, Watson’s laptop computer…

Wait… Watson’s computer?

If he didn’t take his laptop, that meant whatever trip they took this morning was short one.

She checked her watch, a cheap, nondescript thing she picked up in Birmingham after she had sacrificed the watch her brother had given her for her thirtieth birthday…

Her brother… Michael…

Her heart twisted painfully… if we run, bail on this… Michael would have died for nothing… his daughter orphaned for no good reason… his wife a widow…

She shook her head. Later… she would have to think about that later… now she was in the home of The Most Observant Human Being in the Entire Goddamn World. It wouldn’t do to lose focus now, to inadvertently leave a hint of her presence because she was being careless.

Her eyes flicked to the door to the master bedroom. There’s a picture of him and Mycroft when they were kids in there she recalled. I’ll take a picture of that with my camera since the memory is full on my Palm Pilot and give that to Ciaran. He can use that to get off at night. If that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll find something in the bathroom, the little half-bath connected to his room… Anything else Ciaran might want I can pull from Watson’s blog and other public records to keep him occupied until Steve and I can get out of London…

Violet turned on her heel and walked towards Sherlock’s room. The door wasn’t closed all the way so she pushed it open with the palm of her hand, entering.

And immediately froze, her eyes widened horror, her heart in her throat. Her hand stayed on the door, as if it was stuck.

A long, bare, hairy leg stuck out from underneath the duvet. The Belstaff and scarf lay in a heap at the foot of the bed and the nice dress clothes were flung all over the place, as if the owner had been in some sort of frenzy as he undressed.

When in the hell had he come back? A panicky voice screamed inside her head as she took in, disbelievingly, the bare leg sticking out beneath the blankets, the coat on the floor, the bare arm hanging limply over the edge of the bed, the fingers grazing the floor, the mop of black curly hair peeking out above the duvet at the head of the bed.

Violet forgot to breathe. Her legs, her entire body refused to register the commands her brain flooded her central nervous system with, which was RUN! RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN!

No…  stop. She folded her lips tightly shut, biting back a scream. Don’t run. Don’t panic. He’s asleep. If he was awake, you’d be fucked right now, but he’s asleep. Even he can’t observe while he’s sleeping. Slow. Silent. Slip away. Tell Ciaran the truth… this is your out. Sherlock came home early, I couldn’t get anything, I can’t do this anymore… you can’t pay me enough to do this anymore…

She inhaled slowly, silently through her nose. Her heart still felt like it was in her throat so she swallowed hard. That did nothing so she continued to breathe through her nose as she slowly lifted one leg behind her, then the next one, taking a large, long, quiet step back.

An ice age seemed to pass for her to take the two necessary steps out to just get out of the bedroom. Violet could feel every hair on her body vibrate with tension. Goosebumps covered her arms and legs. Her heart no longer sat in her throat but she felt it pounding, slamming in her chest. Her stomach clenched tighter and tighter with every breath she took, every slow, arduous step she inched back. She fought with all of her might the adrenaline-fueled response to flee, to run… to just get the hell out of there. Her legs ached to run.

Slow. Steady. Silent.

She took another step back.

The floorboard beneath her heel creaked.

“John?”

At the unmistakable sound of his voice, Violet abandoned the Slow Steady Silent approach and bolted like a rabbit sensing a predator.

She thought she heard the sound of heavy blankets thrown aside and feet hitting the floor as she fled through the door to John’s room, shutting it in hopes of deterring her pursuer.

She definitely heard that very door squeak open and Sherlock’s voice call out “Stop! Who are you?” when she flung John’s door open and bolted into his room. She didn’t break her stride, she jumped on John’s bed and lunged for the frame of the skylight, grabbing the frame on the first try and started pulling herself up and over.

She had nearly pulled herself out when a large hand grabbed her ankle.

She didn’t even look behind her or down but cried out in pain as the window frame scraped against her stomach and breasts while Sherlock pulled her down. She clung to the skylight frame with all her strength in her arms and kicked out with her free leg as hard as she could. She caught air the first time she kicked, but she connected with something (Stomach? Chest?) on the second try. Sherlock grunted but didn’t let go so she swung her free leg out and around again and got the side of his head this time. He let go of her ankle. She pulled herself up and out, not bothering to shut the window.

She didn’t even look behind her to see if he followed her, just scooped up her rucksack, vaulted over the ledge, landed on the fire escape and ran down the rickety, rusty steps as fast as she dared, then slid down the ladder like a firefighter. The second her feet hit the ground, she started running again. It was only then did she dare to look behind her. She didn’t see anyone pursuing her, but she decided not to take any chances. Despite the stitch burning in her side and her arms and legs aching, she ran and ran, down the alley, away from Baker Street.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat on John’s bed, one hand rubbing the left side of his jaw, the other his chest, trying to decide on whether or not to pursue.

Female he thought, judging by foot size and the high-pitched cry of pain.He inhaled deeply. Also, can detect the slightest odor of flowers and baby powder, not unlike the scent of women’s deodorant. A common deodorant, alas, can be purchased anywhere. But also smell coconut oil again… odd…

This promised to be a highly irritating morning. First, Lestrade woke him out of a dead sleep. The DI had damn well known he and John had been out late working a different case for a civilian client. Second, Lestrade didn’t even have the decency to call him about a murder. Oh no, it was a robbery. A monotonous, ordinary smash-and-grab at a news agent’s stand.

Honestly? Sherlock had thrown his mobile across his room in disgust without even bothering to ring off. Lestrade had said “Hello?” several times before he finally disconnected and rang John. And good, kind, faithful John, still in his pyjamas and slippers, had padded down the stairs, through the lounge and tapped on Sherlock’s door, telling him to get up “Lestrade’s got a case.”

“It’s a Two. I only get up early for a Ten.”

“You are being a git. Come on, get up.” The two pillows Sherlock had chucked at John did not deter him. “Lestrade wouldn’t have rang if it wasn’t important.”

“Don’t care about important, I care about interesting,” Sherlock had snapped but John had merely rolled his eyes, gone to his wardrobe, selected trousers, a matching jacket and a shirt then tossed them onto the bed, ordered him quietly to Get Dressed and marched out.

When he had finished dressing, Sherlock had already solved the smash-and-grab. He tried explaining this to John as they walked out of the flat, down the stairs and out of the building where a black cab waited. John, on the other hand, had nattered on some nonsense about “professionalism” and “courtesies” and “helping your friends”.

Boring.  

Before even getting into the cab, Sherlock knew he could not bear being around Lestrade and the rest of the Met, especially, ugh, Anderson.  

No, it was far too early to deal with that incompetent ninny. 

As they climbed into the cab, Sherlock told John the identity of the smash-and-grab culprit while Violet had been climbing down the fire escape of the building directly across from 221B Baker Street. When the cab pulled away from the curb, Sherlock ordered John to give his deductions to Lestrade then proceeded to inform the poor hapless cabbie that yes, his wife was unfaithful, but didn’t have the time or inclination to explain why. The cabbie screeched on the brakes and squawked “What? My wife’s never unfaithful!”

“I know,” Sherlock had said pleasantly, opening the cab door. “I just wanted you to stop.” He hopped out. While John yelled at him to Get Back Here, he had hummed under his breath while strolling back to Baker Street, confident that John could handle A Two on his own.

He had pushed open the great big black door to the block of flats when John had given up and told the cab to drive… and when Violet had crouched down by the bins to activate the app that would change the angle of the CCTV cameras. He was already entering his flat when Violet was sprinting across the street to his block of flats.

While she had climbed the rusty, unreliable fire escape, he had undressed, his fury returned from having been roused for something so simplistic and run-of-the-mill.

He had just pulled the covers over his head when Violet reached the rooftop of his building.

He had been in a twilight state, hovering between sleep and waking while she was in John’s room, taking the sweaters out of the drawer.

He had almost drifted completely off when he heard that floorboard squeak.

However, the patter of light, small nimble feet running away after he had called out John’s name immediately alerted him to the fact that whoever was in the flat was most definitely not John. Wide awake, he threw back the covers and pursued.

He nearly had caught his quarry, his hand around a slender ankle, but a sharp kick to his chest then chin deterred him from pulling the intruder all the way down. Now he sat, bemused, on John’s bed, looking up, seeing faint blue skies and wispy white clouds.

Continue to pursue? He wondered then looked down at himself. Oh, right. He had stripped down to the skin and slithered straight into bed. He would lose valuable time dressing. The interloper would already be in the wind.

This wasn’t the first time this particular intruder had invaded his home. Oh yes, she had been here before. He had smelled faint traces of her particular yet common brand of women’s deodorant as well as the coconut oil in the flat twice before. John never brought his dates or girlfriends home to spend the night, so they were ruled out. Irene Adler wore Chanel, so she was eliminated as well.

Interesting, but how interesting… he mused, still rubbing his jaw where she had kicked him. She’s strong… but is she an ordinary burglar or is she working for someone, looking for something in particular…?

The name drifted across his mind before he could help himself Moriarty…

Standing, he reached for the fold-down ladder and pulled it down. As he climbed it to shut the sky light window, he decided that this was a Four on the Scale of Interesting, Ten being a modern-day Jack-the-Ripper serial killer set loose on London…

As he pulled the window pane shut and locked it, he decided he needed to improve the locks on the skylight again. He also decided to keep this break-in to himself. This, after all, was only a Four, something to mull over but not to pursue right now.

After all, his eyes flicked over John’s room after he climbed down and folded the ladder back into place. Nothing was taken… everything was in order...

Or was it?

He opened the bottom drawer and grunted, relieved to see the jumpers exactly in the order John had put them away them in. Everything was in order indeed.

He yawned, already bored with the break-in. Blinded by arrogance and exhaustion, he decided it’d be best to go back to his bed before John returned and found him starkers in his room.

That would probably be something John would consider Not Good…

An evil thought crossed his mind, something along the lines of crawling into John’s bed instead of his own… could be a fun experiment, would definitely be interesting to see what John’s reaction would be… except the timing was bad, of course. John would be extremely cross with him since he had acted what John would consider “rude” to the cabbie.

Plus John would act completely offended Sherlock let him work the case on his own, as if Sherlock ditched him or something. That would be silly, it was a vote of confidence that Sherlock allowed John to handle a case on his own… but John wouldn’t see it that way.

So, today John would not be pleased to find Sherlock in his bedroom, naked or otherwise, when he returned from holding Lestrade’s hand through the stupid smash-and-grab case…

Regretfully, Sherlock deleted the idea. Another time perhaps…

Besides, he was leaving late tonight for a flight to Yemen, since that was the only way to get into the Middle East without a uniform these days. Apparently The Woman couldn’t stay out of trouble. Surely John wouldn’t blame him for needing a few hours of shut-eye before flying out…

Well, John wouldn’t blame him, would think it was noble or heroic or some other foolish thing.

If John knew Sherlock planned on going to a terrorist hotspot to retrieve Miss Adler from the latest disaster she had gotten herself into, that is.

Women, Sherlock thought irritably as he stomped down the stairs back to his bedroom.

***

16 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Monday evening
10:45 PM

Of course, neither John nor Violet knew Sherlock had taken a late flight out that night to save Irene Adler from execution. Violet only knew her side of the story…

“So I ran like hell until I got to somewhere I felt safe enough to take my stocking cap and gloves off. I put on a brightly colored scarf and a matching hat that hid my face but didn’t make me look like a cat burglar. I’m not sure why he didn’t pursue-”

John cleared his throat “When he thinks he’s alone, he doesn’t sleep in pyjamas.”

“Oh,” Violet’s eyes flicked back over to the detective, still out for the count. If his chest hadn’t continued to rise and fall, Violet would have seriously wondered if he was dead. At any rate, she longed to get a napkin and wipe the drool off his face… after taking a picture, of course.

“Or,” John added uncomfortably “Or, err… in anything,” he cheeks pinked ever so slightly.

Violet felt her own cheeks heat up, wondering how many near misses she may have had to see the Great Detective in all of his… greatness.

“Good to know,” she mumbled. She then looked back at John. He still pointed his gun in her general direction, but he rested it on his knee, his finger no longer on the trigger. A good step in the right direction. “So… where was I, oh… OK, so when I didn’t look like I just got done breaking into someone’s house, I found the nearest Underground stop and went to our bolt-hole in Soho so I could look at whatever it was I had downloaded to my Palm Pilot.”

Noticing how John’s brow crinkled in confusion, she explained “We had two apartments back then. One was our official residence, which was in my name, or,” she rolled her eyes at her slip “’Janice Carr’s name, I mean. The other apartment was a place we used if we needed to work on something confidential or if we felt the need to hide out. After my last visit with Ciaran-”

“I think we both know who Ciaran really is,” John said tartly.

Despite the gun, Violet gave John a foul look “Don’t be so holier-than-thou, Dr. Watson. He was right under your nose too, trying to get into Molly Hooper’s panties and neither you nor the Great Detective noticed what he really was. How did it feel, wearing that Semtex vest, knowing at any minute, you could be dust?”

John gave her a crooked smile “Can’t resist, can you? Messing about with people’s minds?”

Violet gave him a slight shrug “Force of habit. As your slobbering BFF over there correctly deduced, I need to have the upper hand. You wanted to know how I stayed alive? That’s how. Always being at least one step ahead of the bad guys.”

“Am I a bad guy?”

“You’re pointing a gun at me,” she reminded him. “Put it away John, you’re not that guy.”

“You wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t.” But he did click the safety back on.

Violet allowed herself, for the first time since she sat down, to lean back, to let her back rest again the couch cushions. “You are learning.”

“I have a good teacher.”

They both looked at Sherlock, still sprawled out, still dead to the world, snoring slightly now.

“Yeah, he’s inspiring,” Violet said dryly. “Anyway, I went to SoHo and moved the file from the Palm Pilot to the computer we kept there, a laptop, hidden underneath the floorboards.”

“What was it?” John felt a strange fluttering in his stomach. Not like butterflies, more like… bats. “What was on the memory stick?”

 Violet stood up, started untying the belt of Sherlock’s blue dressing gown.

John froze. “What are you doing?”

She let the dressing gown fall open, showing she wore one of the t-shirts Sherlock liked to sleep in as well as a pair of his boxer shorts. “I really need to get some of my own clothes,” she reached down the collar of the t-shirt and into her bra. “He is going to have a melt-down if I keep borrowing his shit.” She pulled out a memory stick and held it out to him. “It’s not like the movies where there’s only one,” she told him. “There are other copies.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“So have I,” Violet said. “That’s why there are copies and my entire life does not depend on one expensive camera phone.”  

“What is it?”

“You’re going to have to watch it to believe it.”

“I am not in the mood for cryptic nonsense,” John said firmly.

“You said you wanted to know how I survived all these years, what it was like working for Moriarty and how I found out about Sherlock and why Mycroft covered it up.” She stretched her hand out further. “This is it.”

“That is what?”

“There is no written documentation about what Sherlock went through as a child,” Violet flipped the memory stick over and over in her fingers. “All the medical charts were destroyed as well as all the files from the child shrink Sherlock was sent to when his parents finally figured out what was going on… but Dr. Scott,” Violet studied the stick she held between her pointer and middle fingers. “She was smart. She did as she was told. She destroyed all the written documentation. However, no one knew she videotaped all her sessions with all her patients. And that, before her death, had transferred the sessions from VHS to digital.”

John’s jaw dropped. “That’s not…” When Violet nodded, John whispered “Jesus…”

“I tried to tell Sherlock, if I had given Moriarty everything… John, can you imagine what that monster would have done with this?”

“I don’t want to,” John remembered the weight of the suicide bomb vest on his shoulders. Hearing Moriarty’s slimy voice deep inside his ear Hello Sherlock… quite a turn-up isn’t it? “But… that’s it, isn’t it? What you all needed, what we need to connect Mycroft to the Earl. Maybe the story about him getting in trouble in Thailand is nothing but a big lie. Maybe he’s been a part of Moriarty’s organization from the beginning…” A terrible thought hit him. “Maybe he was born into it? That his entire family was a part of it?”

“You are learning,” Violet said flatly. “But can you do what I couldn’t. This,” she held the memory stick in front of John’s face “Was my golden ticket. To go home, all I had to do was give it to Bear. And I couldn’t do it.” She stretched her arm out again. “Can you go public with this?”

John finally put his gun down then stood up “If going public means exposing a member of the peerage as a pedo piece of shit?” He walked to her and held out his hand “You bet I can.”

Violet gave him a funny smile and placed the stick in his open palm. She folded his fingers over it, much like how Diesel closed her fingers around the flash drive he gave her years ago. “I think you should watch the videos before you commit to that promise,” she squeezed his hand, adding “If you can go behind your best friend’s back and learn about what he doesn’t want to talk about with you, of course.”

“I-” John stammered. “I’m worried about him.”

“I know, but John, maybe there’s a good reason he doesn’t want to tell you everything. Maybe, he feels guilty or ashamed, but watching that will change everything for you.”

“More than watching my best friend jump to his death only to rise from the grave two years later? Or when-” he stopped himself from saying Or when he murdered Magnussen in cold blood to save my wife? “And what does he have to feel guilty or shame about at any rate? He was the bloody victim!” he said instead, his voice rising.

“John, I promise you, everything you know is wrong,” Violet said sharply. 

“I don’t believe you,” his voice was lethally quiet.

So was hers “Yes you do.” She let go of his hand.

John blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

She had never broken eye contact with him once while she had told her tale.

He swallowed hard, nodded and said “Yeah. OK.”

“OK,” Violet relaxed slightly. Crossing her arms, she said “I told you and gave you everything you asked for. Where’s my dog? He probably needs to go out.”

“Sorry… your dog?”

“Where did you put him? Is he shut up in a closet or your old room? If Gladstone had seen you threaten me, he would have torn your throat out.”

The bats in John’s stomach flapped their wings even more. “I… I didn’t do anything to your dog. I thought you had left him in Sherlock’s room.”

“No, he was out here with you and Sleeping Beauty over there when I was taking a bath…” Both Violet and John nervously looked around the flat. “Gladstone,” Violet called. “Here boy…” she whistled. Then she put her hands on her hips, still looking around. “Well, what in the hell? When did you last see him?”

“Out here, Sherlock was-” John almost said feeding him fairy-cakes but instead said “Petting him… but after… dunno. Kitchen maybe?”

Both John and Violet walked towards the kitchen. Violet cried out when she saw her dog, lying on his side, next to the giant bowl serving as his water dish, obviously unconscious, tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail motionless.

She knelt down, shook him and called out “Stone! Stone, oh my God!” She sounded like she was going to cry. “What, what happened? Did he get into one of Sherlock’s stupid experiments?”

Obviously no veterinarian, John knelt down by the dog anyway and nervously pried his eye open. When he saw how dilated it was, he cursed under his breath and got up quickly.

As he stalked out of the kitchen, Violet rapidly followed, clutching at the dressing gown like a long-skirted gown so she wouldn’t trip. “What? What happened to my dog?” she demanded as John stood right in front of the sleeping Sherlock.

“Get up,” he snapped.

“You said you drugged him?” Violet stood next to John.

“I did,” John said through clenched teeth. “I gave him the muscle relaxers intended for you instead of his allergy meds. He must have palmed them somehow and put them in the fairy-cake he fed Stone while you showered.”

“He fed my dog people-food after I told him not to?”

“Big picture, Violet,” John reminded her.

“YOU DRUGGED MY DOG?” Violet screeched at Sherlock then kicked him in the shin. Hard.

“OW!” Sherlock yelped, abandoning all pretense of sleep now.

“I don’t believe this,” John did his best impersonation of Lestrade and ran both his hands over his face as he turned away from Sherlock.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Violet, meanwhile, was doing her best impersonation of a banshee.

Wiping the drool off his chin, Sherlock asked “Don’t you think you are over-reacting just a bit?”

“YOU COULD HAVE KILLED HIM!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, reaching down to rub his shin. “I only gave him one of the tablets.” He sat up, held up both hands, palms facing her. John turned around just in time to see him close both hands into fists. Then Sherlock opened his left hand, which was empty. He then opened his right hand, which held the other muscle relaxer John tried to trick him into taking. Ta-da. “Your hound is perfectly fine. Might be a bit muzzy in the morning when he wakes.”

“That is my dog. You do not perform any experiments on him. Do you understand?” Violet shoved her face into his, two red splotches appearing on her freckled cheeks.

“And these,” Sherlock grabbed the sleeve of his dressing gown “Are my clothes. Stop stealing them, do you understand?”

“You want me to take them off right now, sweetheart?” Violet asked poisonously.

“NO,” John said before Sherlock said anything. “Everyone stays dressed.”

Violet jerked her arm out of Sherlock’s grip and spun away from him “And you,” she snarled at John. “What is wrong with you? Drugging him, pointing a fucking loaded gun at me?” She punched him in the shoulder. Hard. John winced and rubbed where she had hit him while she continued to yell at him: “Why didn’t you just tell him you wanted to talk to me in private?”

“Really?” John and Sherlock said in unison.

“Oh. My. God,” Violet’s voice pitched up another octave as she shrieked. “You two are insane! I’d be safer with Mycroft.”

“But bored out of your skull,” Sherlock drawled, settling back into his chair, tenting his fingers. “Admit it, my dear Agent Hunter, being here, with us, is the first time you have felt like yourself in years… this is the first time you’ve been able to be yourself, actually.”

“Fuck both of you,” Violet stormed out of the lounge, towards Sherlock’s bedroom. She wisely waited until her hand on the doorknob before announcing. “And if when I steal your clothes pisses you off, wait until I steal your bedroom.”

Before she finished her sentence, Sherlock had bolted out of his chair and vaulted over John’s chair to dashed to his bedroom.  Just as she slammed the door shut, he grabbed the doorknob, twisted it then slammed his shoulder against the door. But it was too late. The lock had clicked.

“Violet,” he shouted, pounded his fist against the door. “Open. The. Door.”

“Go. To. HELL.”

“That is my room.”

“You drugged my dog.” 

“This is MY home,” Sherlock slammed his open hand against the door, more out of frustration than anything else. “You are my guest.”

“I am your prisoner.”

 Sherlock leaned against the door, resting his forehead against it. “No. You’re not.”

“Tell that to Mycroft.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, I’m sorry about your stupid dog, now please stop acting like a hysterical twit. Your sentimental attachment to your canine is coloring your normally practical personality.”

“Worst apology ever,” John sighed, suddenly very glad Mary was not around to witness this.

“YOU DRUGGED MY DOG! A TRAINED POLICE DOG. HE’S NOT JUST A PET!”

“I’ll unscrew the bolts and take the door off its hinges,” Sherlock threatened, ignoring John’s rueful headshaking.

“Your precious coat in here,” Violet replied. “You think you can get the door open before I set it on fire? I know you have a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in here somewhere.”

 “Don’t you dare set my coat on fire!”

“Then don’t experiment on MY DOG.”

“FINE,” Sherlock shouted. “I WON’T.” His entire face twisted as he forced himself to say “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. And I won’t let John point any more guns at you either. Will you please come out?”

“No.”

The fate of our city rests on these two children John thought glumly. Sod it. Mary and I are moving to New Zealand.

 “Violet, I must really insist-”

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“I’m NOT sleeping on the couch.”

“Then sleep with John.”

“OK,” John said loudly, hurrying to the bedroom door. “Thanks for the chat, Violet, have a good night. Sherlock,” John grabbed him by his sleeve and pulled him a little bit away from the bedroom door. “Mate, you’re not going to win this one. Let it go.”

“She’s being completely unreasonable.”

“She’s upset. We both did crap things to her tonight. Leave it.”

“She said she’s going to set my coat on fire.”

“She’s not going to set your coat on fire,” John said soothingly. “She just wants to be left alone for a bit. Nine out of ten nights you kip out on the sofa anyway. I’m going to put the kettle on, would you like a cuppa?”

“I don’t know John,” Sherlock said frostily. “You plan on putting LSD instead of sugar in my tea?”

“I’m sorry,” John said sincerely. “I really am. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have been up front with you. But, you have to admit, you did deserve some payback for that little stunt you pulled on me at Baskerville.”  

“Honestly John, I’m too impressed by your deceptions to be truly angry.”

John smiled.

Then Violet yelled through the door “YOU TWO HAVE THE MOST SCREWED UP RELATIONSHIP EVER!”

“Go to bed,” John shouted.  

“Yes Dad.”

“OK, now she’s being a bit unreasonable,” John sighed but then saw Sherlock’s eyes fixed on his right hand… the hand that still held the memory stick Violet gave him.

“Oh…” John said, breathlessly. “Err…” Then he hung his head. “She’s right,” he said gruffly. “This… this is private. It’s just… I’m…” he held the memory stick out to him. “Take it.”

Sherlock reached out with his long fingers. But instead of taking the stick, he folded John’s fingers over it, just as Violet had done moments ago.

“I trust you,” he said in a barely audible voice before quickly turning away, retreating to his violin. “Earl Grey, if you don’t mind. And we have milk, thanks to Violet.”

John carefully put the stick in his jeans pocket.

“Right,” he said quietly “Thanks to Violet.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen: Dépaysement

29 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Monday evening
10:13 PM

“Filthy insects.”

Violet lifted her head up from her laptop. She took the pen she had been chewing on out of her mouth “They’re still out there?”

A grunt from Sherlock as he threw the curtains back answered her question. “It’s my turn to call,” she picked up her mobile, scrolled for Lestrade’s number, thinking Goddamn paparazzi.

In the fortnight since Sherlock had drugged Gladstone, absolutely nothing had happened.

Regarding their case, that is. No sign of Jack Woodley, dead or alive. No more bombings. No more enigmatic little clues. No one felt like playing anymore. 

So the minute John got the all-clear from The Met (and Sherlock) he had wasted no time packing his things. If he could have sprouted wings and flown out of there, he would have. He had a marriage to repair, after all. Plus, three days with Sherlock and Violet definitely made him realize the truth behind the cliché: Two’s company, three’s a crowd.

And…. Christ, they argue like an old married couple, he thought wearily as he tried to watch the telly in peace one night as Violet and Sherlock squabbled back and forth about who really coined the expression “Whenever I hear the word 'culture' I reach for my revolver!”… and how Sherlock had howled when Violet quoted the saying in its original German then translated it correctly as “Whenever I hear the word 'culture'... I remove the safety from my Browning!" and then proved the phrasing came from a play called Schlageter.

John wondered if Violet had a death wish.

Especially when, last Tuesday, when Sherlock had dragged both of them to a crime scene, she had pointed out a clue the Great Detective had missed. “Looks like the lady can give you a run for your money,” Lestrade had teased him.

John had been terribly afraid there might be two more homicides at the scene.

However he fully realized Violet and Sherlock picked fights with each other not because they disliked each other, but because they liked fighting.

“They argue for arguments’ sake,” he had moaned to Mary on the telephone the last night he had been forced to stay at Baker Street. He had retreated to his old bedroom while the detective and the profiler had bickered non-stop about the differences of gun control laws between the UK and the US. “I may go barking mad if I stay here any longer.”

“Molly has been so kind and generous, but her flat barely has enough room for her and her cat,” Mary whispered. “I think the walls are literally moving in on me… and, well… I shouldn’t say...”

“What?”

“I think, well, I think Molly is expecting.”

“Expecting? As in…” John had remembered his previous suspicions. “Are you sure?”

“Not completely, but I’m going to knit her baby booties just in case. Please don’t say anything…”

“Not a word.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” John had gotten up off his bed to go close the door on Sherlock and Violet’s rising voices “So, so much, my lovely girl. Lestrade said we can go home tomorrow.” 

“Oh thank God,” Mary had sighed. “I can’t wait to sleep in our bed.”

“I can’t wait to have you in our bed.”

“John Watson,” she had purred “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Yup. How’m I doing?” he had flopped back down onto his bed and had smiled while Mary had whispered he was doing just fine and what she had planned for him when they reunited under the same roof… then something downstairs had crashed. Then something sounded like it had exploded. Then John heard the smoke detectors go off and Sherlock and Violet shouting at each other while the infernal hound barked madly.

“Shit, Sherlock set something on fire again.”

“Take that bloody blowtorch away from him!” Mary had cried out before John rang off to storm downstairs to find out what the ruddy hell had happened this time.

Yes, the three days back at Baker Street had been an excellent reminder why it was nice to live with a woman who had given up a very unsavory and dubious lifestyle to enjoy ordinary things like knitting and baking bread when it was cold and damp outside and who didn’t keep body parts in the refrigerator or bathtub.

Not to mention, there was now dog hair everywhere in the flat. Everywhere.

John had found a stray hair floating in his tea one morning.

However, just as prevalent but far more obnoxious as the dog hair was the paparazzi. When John tried to leave for work the morning after Sherlock had drugged Gladstone, hundreds of flashes blinded him. And hateful shouts of “You moving back into 221B, John?”, “Where’s your wife, Dr. Watson?”, “Is Mary Morstan just a beard, John?” deafened him.

But the paps weren’t after John, although someone did run a very unflattering piece in one of the gossip rags about him leaving Sherlock’s flat, hinting about marital problems.  No, the money shot would be the one clear picture of Miss Violet Smith’s face.

Janine had texted Sherlock, all put out the press hadn’t been nearly as interested in her as they were with That Ginger Cow. He rolled his eyes and promptly handed the mobile to Violet, his unspoken permission to Do Her Worst.

And she did with maniac delight. That had been fun. Probably would never hear from the wretched tart again. Good.

He kept the screenshots Violet made of her responses to the little fame-whore and re-read them when he needed a break from working the case. Or a mean-spirited laugh.

What hadn’t been fun was that the cabbie who had driven Sherlock and Violet to St. Paul’s Cathedral had unfortunately figured out who his passengers had been that night. He sold his paltry story to the highest bidder and soon the “Boffin Genius’ Boozefest” story was splashed all over the tabloids. That not only generated a scathing telephone call from Mycroft, but also from Mummy Holmes as well.

Violet, John and Gladstone had fled the room in terror during that particular call, jumping out of their seats when they heard Sherlock say sourly “Hello Mother”. The newspaper John had been reading still floated in the air as Violet and John had pushed and shoved each other out of the other’s way in their rush to get out the door, with Gladstone nimbly darting ahead both of them.

“Traitors,” Sherlock had snapped as the kitchen door slid shut behind them.

But, like children, John and Violet had pressed their ears against the closed door, listening to how Sherlock handled a dressing-down from his mother while Gladstone paced and whimpered:

“No, Mother… yes, Mother… I didn’t, Mother… it was for a case… it was an act… what exactly did Mycroft tell you… I assure you I am abusing alcohol… I am not using again either because heaven forbid I disrupt your busy schedule with my addic- no Mother… yes Mother…stop calling me Willia- yes Mother, I apologize… yes, I’m sorry, I really am… no, I really am, Mother, please stop crying, it won’t happen again…I promise… no... I do not wish to speak to…. Hello Father… no Father… it was for a case!”

Sherlock didn’t speak to either Violet or John the rest of that afternoon. They appeased him later that evening by playing Risk… and John suspected Violet let him win.

But if a clear picture of Violet’s face was the money shot, then a picture of Sherlock inebriated would be the bonus cheque and the paps were bound and determine to earn their reward.

They were everywhere. They followed Sherlock and Violet when he finally relented and took Violet out shopping so she would stop nicking his clothes. And of course he had to go with her because, God forbid if Mycroft saw she was out on her own… but she had only been able to buy a nice brown trench coat, a new scarf (replacing the one she had lost during their flight from her flat on Hartwill before the bomb blew) and a trendy hat reminiscent of the old cloche hats the girls wore during the Roaring Twenties. The paps had overwhelmed the front of the store before she could go somewhere else to purchase other clothes and necessary toiletries. They had to sneak out back but there were even a few paps waiting out there. Fortunately Violet had jammed the new hat on head and pulled the bill down to hide her face just in time.

Sherlock ended up texting Mycroft demanding he unfreeze “Violet Smith’s” bank accounts so she could shop online instead. Even that was pointless; the postman could barely get through the throng of paps to deliver the packages.

The postman complained. The neighbors complained. The owners and employees of Speedy’s Café complained. If Sherlock or Violet weren’t calling The Met, Mrs. Hudson and John were. The police would come, chivvy the paps off but they’d just creep back, like roaches.

They used telephoto lenses to take close-up shots inside 221B Baker Street. The drapes stayed closed most days now.

As tempted as she was to let Gladstone off his leash whenever the paps appeared, Violet refrained and slipped out into the back alley to let Gladstone relieve himself. She tried to vary the times, but she felt guilty keeping the big dog cooped up in the flat most of the day. Especially when she had used to take him on long walks nearly daily and took him to the park at least once a week.

But the persistent paparazzi had followed her and Sherlock the one time they tried to go to the park with Gladstone, although they gave them a very wide berth, as pictures of a frenzied Gladstone started circulating the Internet as well.

With or without the police dog, the paparazzi relentlessly followed Sherlock, John and Violet to crime scenes. They followed Sherlock and Violet the one time they tried sneaking out again so Violet could buy a proper black dress and heels for Bear’s funeral, a gloomy affair with only Sherlock, John, Mary and Violet in attendance at the crematorium.

The paps followed John home from surgery to see if he was really going home to Mrs. Watson, or if he was returning to Baker Street.

They followed Mary to the hospital, one being so bold as pretending to be a visitor, carrying grapes and balloons for an imaginary patient, just so he could get a glimpse of Mary.

They followed Lestrade. He had been unable to go to Molly’s for over a week and a half because of them. Most infuriating since he was supposed be helping her pack so she could move to his flat. It would not be good for the paps to catch him with a woman fifteen years his junior when the ink on his divorce decree wasn’t really dry yet.

They even started following Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman. Last Thursday, she had cried on Violet’s shoulder after a pap scared her to death when she went out to bin her rubbish. As Violet awkwardly patted Mrs. Hudson on the back, Sherlock had stalked out of the flat carrying a riding crop, but that pap had already fled, lucky for him.

Neither John nor Violet had to nag Sherlock anymore about taking his allergy pills on a regular basis.  He now also carried the epinephrine syringe in his coat pocket when he had to go out, although he threatened to us it to stab a photographer in the eyeball instead of using it for what it was really for.

Neither John nor Violet felt confident he had been joking about that.

Both realized he was getting dangerously bored.

None of the cases Lestrade called him about during the last two weeks about were interesting enough to keep his mind off of the paps. Fours and Fives at the most, none of them murders.

All the private requests for his assistance were solved with shirty little emails, until John interceded. “You text me the deductions and I’ll email the results to the clients.” So they’ll actually pay us for our services instead of being offended he thought wearily.

And there was nothing from the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase. It was as if their interest in Sherlock and John and Violet had dissipated like smoke.

The strange text message on John’s mobile I admire you was a dead-end. A spoofed number just as Lestrade had predicted.

Daily, Violet checked Jack Woodley’s off-shore account. None of the money had moved. Trapped by the paparazzi, she worked with Mr. Carruthers’ solicitors over the telephone or through Skype to begin the painful and onerous business of dissolving the firm. Too risky to try and sell a business that was a front for multiple illegal enterprises. Not there was much left to salvage, the bomb wiped out most of the office space. Without the dirty money, there was barely enough to pay the employees’ wages for the next two weeks, it turned out, until the business insurance policies were paid out and even then, most of that money had to be turned over to their creditors and suppliers and HM Revenue and Customs.

“I’m really tempted to transfer some of the money from Jack’s account to our employees,” she had said bitterly to Sherlock after yet another depressing conference call with the solicitors.

When she wasn’t tying up loose ends of the dying business, she worked the case with Sherlock. She drank endless cups of coffee and chewed pen lids to shreds. He drank cup after cup of tea heavily laced with sugar and applied nicotine patch after nicotine patch. Together, they poured over years and years of research and evidence, trying to find something, that one thing they both missed. Both recognized the urgency to get one step ahead.

Both knew this was just the deep breath before the jump.

Still, the inertia made Sherlock pace and tramp around like a high-strung racehorse.

And the full-time presence of the paparazzi only caused his rotten mood to fester more.

Turning from the window just as Violet found Lestrade’s name in her list of contacts, he announced “The Met is useless.” He fished around in his jacket pocket for his own mobile.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he started texting his brother the following:

“Do not care how you do it; just get rid of the bloody paps – SH”

He shook his head and Violet rolled her eyes and returned her attention back to her laptop.

Sherlock hit Send and tossed his mobile up and down in the air, waiting for a response. Mid-air, the mobile buzzed. Sherlock caught it and frowned at his brother’s response:

“Was wondering when you were going to swallow your pride. Consider them gone – MH”

Sherlock tucked his mobile in his trouser pocket then sauntered over to the sofa. Gladstone had claimed the sofa as his giant dog bed. He looked up, licked Sherlock’s hand. After Sherlock scratched his ears, he dropped his head on his paws and closed his eyes, content. Sherlock smiled at the brute then looked at the wall behind the sofa. 

Taped to that wall were pictures, maps and other documents, the timeline and history of the Rouge, of Jack Woodley, of the bombings… and of Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, the Earl of Winchester.

Unconsciously scratching his neck, Sherlock stared at the newspaper article extolling the Earl on his demands for the government to be more transparent, that the James Bond days were over and there was no need to hide anything from the British populace. Open and honest.

In other words, there was no need for Mycroft and his games of shadows. Or to allocate any money in the budget for his intelligence operations.

Clever… Sherlock thought, tasting bile in his mouth as he stared at the Earl’s disfigured face.

He sensed Violet staring at him. She did that quite often, studying him. Observing him.

But to be fair, he did the same to her.

He had never lived with a woman other than his mother before. It was… different.

He had to ask John “Do they always spend that much bloody time in the bathroom?”

John hadn’t even looked up from the newspaper “Yes and you won’t win that fight either.” 

Gladstone startled him out of his reverie by pressing his wet nose into his hand again. Suddenly aware he had been scratching his neck, he quickly reached down to pet the dog again, as if that had been his intent all along.

“What?” he asked, accentuating the ‘T’ when he realized Violet still stared silently at him.

She sat in “John’s chair”, wearing a heather-grey jumper with black knit leggings. It was relief to the both of them she didn’t have to rely on other people’s castoffs or Sherlock’s wardrobe any longer. “We don’t have to have his picture hanging up there,” she said calmly “If it bothers you.”

“It’s just a picture,” he muttered, turning away from the wall. “A photograph can’t hurt me.”

“A photograph would kill me,” she said, her voice still even, but Sherlock knew her anxiety levels still remained astronomically high.

He had perceived the tremor in her left hand had increased the longer she stayed cooped up in the flat. He also observed she was completely oblivious of this tell of hers. Interesting… and quite concerning to be honest…

“I texted Mycroft to do what he could to make the paparazzi go away,” he said shortly.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

This surprised him, now used to her flippant remarks and willingness to debate. He, of course, had understood long before John did that she just enjoyed playing devil’s advocate. It helped her think, kept her wits sharp, just like playing the violin helped him.

But playing the violin wouldn’t help him tonight. He felt jittery, ineffective, like he was coming down from a cocaine binge. But I haven’t indulged in that little vice since That Night…

He suddenly felt extremely sad. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Molly since she had told him about the child…his child. That Lestrade would raise… which was the correct decision, but still…

He was unaware his emotions showed plain on his face until Violet asked “Hey, are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, his face closing up.

“Liar.”

Sherlock had deduced Violet didn’t mince words because she was unkind but because she was rather impatient, especially if she felt someone attempting to deceive her. As “Miss Smith” she managed to hide this particular personality flaw, but as herself, she didn’t even bother trying.

“I’m tired,” he lied again, not caring she damn well knew that. “I’m off to bed.”

“Take your meds,” Violet said coolly. “I saw you scratching neck.”

Sherlock snorted, “Don’t stay up all night again. I may need you in the morning.”

Violet merely flapped her hand at him in acknowledgement but her eyes were glued on the computer screen again.

Sherlock really wasn’t tired but his bedroom was the closest thing he could get to being alone these days. He wondered if Kitty Riley hid in plain sight out there… but decided he really didn’t give a damn if she was out there or not.

He paced, hands clasped behind his back. He walked around the room, around his bed, then over his bed. Then he stood on the foot of his bed and let himself fall backwards into it.

He let his eyes flutter shut. Let himself into his mind palace. Looking, searching, hunting… what am I missing? What am I not seeing…?

The bombings, it started with the bombings…

No it didn’t a sinister young man’s voice echoed through the halls of his mind palace. It started with me…

Mycroft make him stop… make him stop hurting me…

Sherlock… I can’t…

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, his heart hammering.

Thought about his small stash… the small bag of cocaine, the vial of morphine he kept hidden in the flat… well, the coke was gone, that went up his nose That Night before he had met Molly at her tiny flat after he and John had That Row… but the morphine was still there.

Just this one time he reasoned with himself, his hands clenching and unclenching folds of the duvet. Morphine is not the same as cocaine. Cocaine accentuates everything. Morphine slows things down. I need to stop thinking, just for a bit. To recharge, as John would say… it would be just this one time. That’s why I saved it, of course.

The challenge would be sneaking past Violet to retrieve his stash. If John had been a relentless watchdog during the danger nights, Violet would be ten times worse. Though she was not his intellectual equal, even he realized how foolish it would be to try sneaking drugs past a former FBI agent who began her career chasing down members of the Mexican cartel.

He took a deep breath, sat up, removed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off, but left his undershirt on. He got off his bed, shucked off his trousers and pants, then found his pyjamas bottoms. He hung his clothes neatly in the wardrobe, then went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, cleaned his teeth, tried to comb his hair, gave up.

He opened the medicine cabinet, reached for the bottle of his allergy pills. Hesitated.

Saw the bottle of muscle relaxers John had gotten for Violet.

Non-habit forming, but they’ll help you sleep…

John had thought two tablets would knock him out so he could interrogate Violet privately.

Sherlock reached for the muscle relaxers, opened the bottle, shook out two tablets, put them in his mouth. Turned on the tap, cupped his hand and splashed the cool water into his mouth, swallowing.

It didn’t take long for him to feel groggy. At last he thought, his eyelids feeling heavy when his head hit the pillow. Maybe now I can get some…

Consciousness slipped away from him.

And the subconscious opened the doors to his mind palace’s dungeons.

All the monsters came out to play…

… His footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell to the roof at St. Bart’s. He felt the familiar rush, the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, the thrill of outwitting an intellectual equal. Better than any high from any drug he had ever tried.

He opened the door, squinted from the sudden brightness of the sun. Looking around, looking for the foul creature, his adversary, his nemesis, his rival and his twin. Ready to bring him down at any cost, at any cost at all…

“Hi.”

He whipped around, his coat spinning out around him. This isn’t how it happened… this isn’t how it happened at all…

Moriarty, in one of his precious Westwood suits, held Molly Hooper in his arms.

No…

“Did you really expect me to believe, that a washed-up DI and a daft old lady were more important to you than her?” Moriarty had his right arm across Molly’s chest, pressing her to him. The left arm was around her middle, her waist, her… belly. He held a serrated knife loosely in his left hand, his dominant hand.

NO…

“You are painfully ordinary, aren’t you? Here I thought you could distract me from the demons, but you are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

“’I may be on the side of angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.’”**

“But what about her?” Moriarty clutched Molly closer to him. “Oh shh, shh, shh, quiet down now lover, Daddy is talking,” he kissed Molly on her tear-streaked cheek. “As I was saying Sherlock, what about HER?” he shouted the last word, making both Sherlock and Molly jump. “Is she one of the angels?” When he didn’t answer, Moriarty tightened his arm around her waist. “What about him?” He lightly ran the knife blade over her stomach. “Is he one of the angels? Or her. I suppose we really don’t know yet, but congratulations all the same, Dad.”

Molly struggled against him then but quick as a flash, Moriarty had the knife tip against her chin, forcing her to look up. “Jim, please stop,” she pleaded. A small bead of blood appeared and dripped onto her frumpy old jumper, the hideous one with the cherries on it.

“That’s not what you said when you and I were together,” Moriarty kissed her temple, threading his fingers through her hair, roughly pulling her head up so he could lay the blade directly against her jugular.

“Stop,” Sherlock couldn’t bear it any longer. “Leave her alone. You don’t want her, you want something else. Tell me. What do you want?”

“You.”

But it wasn’t Moriarty who spoke or Molly. The voice came from behind Sherlock.

He turned again, confused why the sunlight had disappeared. Then, in horror, he reeled back as Lord Cullen-Culpepper appeared from the shadows, in one of his neat black suits, spit-shined shoes, his face, repellent and handsome as ever.

Throat dry, stomach churning, legs shaking, he took step after step backwards until he hit the ledge of the roof, nearly toppling over, nearly falling…

Below, he heard John calling his name…

No, John, keep your eyes fixed on me… John… oh John, please… help me…

The Earl reached out, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and spun him away from the ledge. “That won’t do, that’s not what I want at all,” he smoothed out the wrinkles in Sherlock’s Belstaff.

Sherlock pushed him away, always, forever, pushing him away. The very pressure of the Earl’s hands on his clothes repulsed him. One hand was smooth with neatly manicured nails but the other was a twisted, mottled claw. Both hands had caused him excruciating pain as a child.

I am no longer a child. I am nearly forty years old. I have survived so much. He cannot hurt me anymore. “What do you want?” he injected as much venom in his voice as possible.

“Not a fall,” The Earl said urbanely. “I never wanted you to fall. I want you … to kneel.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, narrowing his eyes, planning on how he would push this man, no this foul, evil monster off this very roof. You will die screaming, I promise you…

“Kneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel,” Moriarty sing-songed in his oily tenor. “Or,” he poised the knife across Molly’s stomach. “We promise not to kill her…” he moved the knife back across Molly’s throat “until after the sprog is born but if you don’t kneel...” he mimed slicing Molly’s throat open.

The Earl reached out with his ugly scarred hand. Sherlock ducked away before he could touch his face and started backpedalling away from him again until he reached the edge of the roof again.  Only this time, he stood on the ledge, facing the two demons, spreading his arms out wide, as if he could fly.

“No!” Molly sobbed, struggling in Moriarty’s arms. “Sherlock, please…”

Sherlock took another step backwards. He could hear John’s panicked shouts from below, pleading for him to come down… to come home with him…

 “You fall, they all die,” Moriarty shouted. “The mother, the child and the pet… there’s a sniper aiming his gun at your precious Jawn right now,” cruelly he mimicked Sherlock’s pronunciation of his friend’s name.

“Come down at once,” the Earl said genteelly.”Your stall tactics benefit no one.”

As he stepped down from the ledge, Moriarty sneered “I can still take everything dear from you. Even from here, even from hell, I can burn your heart out… now, Sherlock Holmes, Great Consulting Detective, I want to see you down on your knees. I want to hear you beg, beg like you did as an ickle boy. I want to watch you wish you were dead, knowing no one will grant you that particular mercy…”     

When Sherlock stayed, hands balled, resolutely on his feet, the Earl said coolly “The father or the son,” he looked at Molly, his eyes travelling down from her pale face to rest on her stomach. “It matters not to me, as long as it’s a Holmes. It only makes sense it should be you, since you already belong to me. On the other hand… I do prefer children, it is true.”

“NO. You will not touch him, you will never touch him.”

The Earl looked down at him over what was left of his nose. “Then do as you’re told, Sherlock.”

He didn’t feel like a thirty-nine year old man, a certified genius, destroyer of great criminal enterprises, a dragon-slayer. He felt like a seven year old child, small, thin and defenseless.

“Please…” the word slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Gooooood,” Moriarty crooned. “That’s what I want to hear…”

The Earl fixed his eyes on Sherlock. “Kneel.”

“This isn’t your first trick, Sherlock,” Moriarty crowed delightedly, hugging Molly tightly to him. “You know how this works, you, as The Woman would say, know what he likes.”

His stomach cramped, twisting and knotting as it had when he was a child, when the Earl would sit next to him at the dinner table and run his fingers up and down his leg. He felt horribly light-headed, he felt one leg buckle, then the other.

And he was on his knees. 

“See, was that so difficult?” the Earl approached him. “I do hope you didn’t have plans, we have so much time to make up for…” he ran his burned hand over Sherlock’s head, carding his fingers through his curls.

He thought he was going to be sick… “Please…” he whispered again, hanging his head, burning with humiliation as he felt Earl’s ugly fingers caressing his cheekbones and lips. “Don’t…don’t do this…”

“Sherlock.”

He jerked his head up. A new voice, a different voice…

“Sherlock, wake up.”

A woman’s voice…

“This isn’t real...”

An American accent…

His face suddenly felt blessedly cool, as if someone held a cold compress to his forehead…

“Listen to my voice, this isn’t real, this is just a dream. Sherlock, wake up…”

Just a dream… wake up…

Listen to my voice…

Violet.

Sherlock jerked awake, his bed-clothes soaked through with sweat. His duvet was twisted around his legs. His room was dark, except for the glow of the small lamp on the nightstand. He could see Violet sitting next to him, still wearing her leggings, but wearing his old T-shirt, the same one she had worn as a nightgown on her first night at Baker Street. Since she hadn’t left the flat in two days her hair was a riot of tangled curls. She dabbed his face and throat with a flannel soaked with cool water while pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead with her other hand. “You’re OK, you’re OK, you’re OK,” she said soothingly he tried to catch his breath.

His voice shook violently “I don’t feel well.”

“It’s OK,” she said, moving so he could sit up.

He reached for his mobile to check the time. His hand trembled like a palsied old man’s. Nearly three in the morning.

“I did not intend to wake you,” he mumbled as he put the mobile back on the night stand.

“It’s OK, I wasn’t sleeping. I got sucked into an old movie on TV.”

Her words barely registered. He swung his feet slowly around and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to get his bearings as Violet rubbed his back. The horrible feeling of humiliation lingered from the nightmare, the last thing he wanted was her pity. He didn’t have the energy to push her away or to even tell her off. He just sat there, hoping the room would stop spinning soon, hoping he’d stop shaking like some stupid scared field mouse who just escaped a barn cat.

“Maybe,” Violet said after a while. “If you’re still feeling nauseous, you should sit in the bathroom for a minute. It’ll give me a chance to change the sheets anyway.”

“The correct grammar is ‘nauseated’.”

She gave him a half-smile. “I’m an American. It’s my God-given right to mangle the English language. And you must be feeling a little better if you’re correcting me.”

He nodded “A little, yes.”

She stopped rubbing his back to give him a little push. Slowly, he got up, his legs still felt wobbly. But she did not patronize him by aiding him to the bathroom. Silly to feel grateful she let him go under his own steam, but he did.

After shutting the door, he opened the medicine chest, grabbed the bottle of muscle relaxers. Fumbling, it took him three tries to get the bottle open, but once he did, he dumped all the pills down the toilet and flushed. His hands still trembling, he lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down. It really felt like he had a bad bout of the flu, but he knew that wasn’t true.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, elbows on knees, face in hands. He might has sat there all night if she hadn’t tapped on the door, then opened it just wide enough to stick her hand and arm through, to give him a clean dry T-shirt and pyjamas bottoms.

Relieved the worst of the shaking had subsided when he stood up; he took the shirt and bottoms from her wordlessly. She shut the door and he changed, throwing the sweat-soaked clothes into the hamper, then washing his face and teeth again. Feeling marginally better, he cracked the door open and watched Violet finish putting his bed back to rights, the damp linens in a heap at the foot of the bed.

“I’d offer to make you tea,” she said over her shoulder as she threw the last pillow, in a clean pillowcase, back onto his bed. “But you always bitch about how I make it.”

“It’s not necessary,” Sherlock said, switching off the bathroom light and slowly making his way back to his bed. “I think the crisis has passed.”

“Mm,” Violet said, moving so he could crawl back into bed.

As she turned to leave, Sherlock asked “You’re not going to interrogate me? Ask me if I’m alright, if anything is bothering me? You are actually going to leave me be, for once?”

“I told you,” she said, turning back to him, her hands clasped loosely together, looking at the floor. “I’m not interested in your personal life unless it affects me directly.”

Sherlock considered her words. “Reverse psychology,” he said as he pulled the duvet over himself. “Clever.”

Violet shrugged, grinned sheepishly, shaking her head as she walked back to his bed. “It was worth a shot.” She sat down beside him again. “Believe it or not, sometimes people will ask you if you’re OK out of simple concern.”

“How touching,” he droned, propping his pillows up, sitting up so he could look at her. “And you are freezing. Your arms are prickled with goose pimples. Go put my dressing gown on, since you intend on nicking it anyway when I fall asleep.”

As Violet rose to retrieve the blue dressing gown hanging off its hook, he said quietly “I’m not OK, I suppose. But I am getting there. Eventually. Everyone just wants to rush me, wants me to have some sort of grand watershed moment when all the poison is drawn from my soul and I am reborn, refreshed and renewed as a better person. But it’s not a process that happens quickly nor can I shed the past as a snake sheds its skin. It needs to happen in its own time. And on my terms, since as you have undoubtedly observed over the years, I am incapable of processing information like an average individual or even like an above-average individual.”

Violet had finished tying the dressing gown’s sash around her waist when he had finished his speech. “I think,” she walked back to the bed and sat again. “That was the first psychologically healthy thing I’ve heard you say… ever.”

“I am self-aware, my dear Agent Hunter,” he leaned back into his pillows. “What the armchair psychologists and conspiracy theorists fail to comprehend is I do not hide my feelings behind my work. I have feelings about my work, I love my work. However, when you literally see and hear and smell everything…” he inhaled sharply “You used coconut oil to moisturize your face and you used my shampoo to wash your hair and my toothpaste to clean your teeth because you left yours on the chest of drawers in John’s old room and didn’t feel like going back upstairs to retrieve them. You still use the same brand of women’s deodorant as you had when you broke into here all those years ago. Before you came in here to wake me, you were petting Gladstone. I could smell his oils from his fur on your hand as you bathed my face.”

“Wow,” Violet said, touching her face, then looking at her hand. “That’s… everyone talks about what you see…”

“Precisely,” he closed his eyes and loosely laced his fingers together, resting them on his chest. “I do not use my work to repress my emotions. I do not hide how I am, how I feel. But if I do not discard unnecessary sentiments, if I do not keep my thoughts well-organized and well-occupied… with the glut of data I receive on a daily basis from the minute I open my eyes, I would go mad from the overload.” He opened his eyes again. “Hyperacuity is hell, Agent Hunter.”

“Especially when you can’t forget anything either,” Violet said. “That’s why you get yourself in trouble when you’re bored.”

“Mm,” Sherlock let his eyelids fall shut again, thinking about his hidden vial of morphine. “Something along those lines, yes.”

“That’s why you use the method of loci, the memory palace technique,” Violet murmured. 

“Obviously.”

“How old were you when you figured out how to build your mind palace?”

“Eight.”

Violet blinked. “Oh!” Then in a softer voice, she said “Oh…” and became interested in picking a piece of fluff of off his duvet. Before the silence got awkward, she said “My grandmother was big on keeping Michael and I busy so we wouldn’t get ourselves in trouble. After my dad died in the first Iraq war, I went a little crazy. I was fifteen and you know, woe is me, no one understands me, blah blah blah… the whole teenage angst thing. I started hanging out with the wrong crowd of kids and well, after getting busted for minor-in-possession-“

“For what?”

“You have to be twenty-one to drink in the US,” she reminded him. “I got caught drinking at a party when I was fifteen. That’s not OK. So I was hauled off in handcuffs along with a bunch of other kids. Minor-in-possession-of-alcohol. Grandma had to pick me up at the police station.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said again, familiar with that less-than-enjoyable experience of having your parents spring you from gaol “Obviously she had enough of your antics.”

 “She was always strict, but fair,” Violet drew her legs up on the bed and sat cross-legged. “I was grounded naturally but that didn’t do any real good. It was actually when I got suspended from school when, as the kids say today, shit got real.”

“What caused your suspension?”

“I got caught smoking the girls’ room, I know, I know,” she chuckled when Sherlock started tut-tutting her. “So rebellious, but… after that stunt, that’s when Grandma laid down the law. She told me in no uncertain terms that since I was a big grown-up girl of fifteen, she really couldn’t tell me what to do anymore, which of course was music to my ears.”

“What was the catch?”

“The catch was she said by law I had to stay with her until I was eighteen, but once I was eighteen, she would wash her hands of me and I’d be on my own. She explained very clearly what my options would be once I turned eighteen: finish high school and go to college, join the military or get a job at the nearest McDonalds, assuming I wouldn’t wind up pregnant before then. But, unless I stayed in school and planned on going to college, I would sent out the door with a suitcase the minute I turned eighteen. Then,” her eyes dimmed “she twisted the knife and told me if I chose the third option, I’d never see Michael again.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, she knew what buttons to push,” her voice was tight. Sherlock observed how she started fiddling with the broken gold watch when she continued talking again “Michael and I… we were always close, even when I was going through my party girl stage. It didn’t happen overnight, but I managed to get it together. Part it was because… well, I didn’t want Michael to see me in a bad light. So I got involved in sports instead of the party crowd, won a scholarship to St. Francis.” A real smile appeared on her face. “Grandma bullied Michael into flying her out to Virginia when I graduated from Quantico. She wore her best church dress, this relic from the Seventies and her best purse and by the way she acted, you would have thought I had won the Nobel Peace Prize or an Oscar when they called my name and I walked on stage.”  

“How do you think your grandmother will react when you return to America?”

Her eyes watered but she did not weep. “Um… She died. Two years ago… so…”

“Oh…” Sherlock mentally kicked himself for not deducing that. She had been talking about the woman in the past tense, after all. Must be the after-effects of the stupid muscle relaxers.

“It’s OK, you didn’t know,” Violet smoothed over the gaffe. “It’s funny,” she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. “I’ve been fighting so long, so hard to go home… but now there’s no one left to go home to.”

“You had mentioned a sister-in-law and a child?”

“Well, yeah, but the last time I had seen Julie was Christmas of 2007 and the kid, my niece, well, she wasn’t born until well after I left for here. She’d be,” she furrowed her brow “Seven years old now, I think?” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I just sometimes think they wouldn’t want me back anyway, that they’d blame me for what happened to Michael.”

“You might be surprised,” Sherlock said. “You might also be surprised who may have missed you while you were gone.”

Violet smiled “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, Anderson’s adoration was not welcome at all. Disconcerting, actually.”

“Really? But I thought he was the one that…”

“Yes,” Sherlock finished her thought “Along with the illustrious Sergeant Donovan, Anderson instigated the events that led to The Fall. Anderson also somehow reached the conclusion on his own I was alive. Nearly blew my cover. Moron.”

“Maybe we can give our research on the Rouge to Anderson, let him figure it out. I’m kidding,” Violet said after Sherlock made a moue of displeasure.    

“Your sense of humor has much to be desired.”

“Sorry I’m not into high-brow humor like Monty Python,” she replied tartly but then sighed. “I don’t belong here, in England. But I’m not sure if I can go back to the US either. I’m not sure I even want to go back… but I still feel like I should, if my name is cleared, of course.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “Why should you go somewhere you don’t want to?”

“Because it’s home. It’s like… I feel… well, the French call it dépaysement.”

Sherlock did not need a translation. It was a lovely French word that did not translate accurately into the English language. The crude translation was the unsteady sensation one feels when away from their home country. Less than disorientation, more than homesickness.

She could fake the accent, she could pretend to like tea, but when she sang God save our gracious Queen, what went through her mind was My country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty…

“One step at a time, Agent Hunter,” Sherlock said. “First, let us ferret out the scoundrel Jack Woodley. Surely that would be sufficient enough leverage for Mycroft to step on someone’s neck to get your good name restored. At the very least, it would give you some options. The world is larger than England and America, Violet.”

“I keep hearing how pretty New Zealand is,” Violet mused.

“John raves about it.”

She laughed softly then unexpectedly yawned. “Sorry… I should try and get some sleep.”

But when she swung her legs down, he quickly yet gently grabbed her wrist “You can stay here… if it would be more convenient for you. It would be far more comfortable than the sofa at any rate.” When she didn’t move, only gave him a puzzled look, he spluttered, sounding more like his usual disgruntled self. “You won’t use John’s room because for some absurd reason it makes you uneasy to sleep there. The sofa is good enough to kip out on but not to sleep on night after night. We are both adults and… and I am the last person in the world to make an unwelcome and unwanted physical advance.”

“OK,” she said while thinking And you don’t want to be alone either more than I do right now as she stood up to untie the dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor.

As he moved over, she slid underneath the duvet, arranging the pillows so she could lay her head down. “How are you feeling now?” she asked in a whisper, rolling to her side to face him.

“Still not OK,” he admitted in a whisper, rolling to face her. “But getting better, I assure you.”

“Eventually,” she said “In your own way and time.”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” she said, sitting up, reaching for the small lamp on the night stand. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for a while anyway. So if you need something, you better say. I’m not as observant as you, you know.”

“No one is,” Sherlock said as she turned off the light.

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you take my pulse a few minutes ago?”

He chuckled, a low, wonderfully comforting sound. “Go to sleep, Violet...  and thank you for talking about yourself instead of interrogating me, by the way.”

”You’re welcome,” she whispered. “See you in the morning.”

Soon there was nothing but the soft sound of their breathing. 

**

Sherlock and Violet were sound asleep when John woke up at five in the morning, as always. He leaned over and kissed Mary lightly on the forehead before carefully folding the duvet back, trying not to wake her. She stirred slightly, but soon resumed a regular, deep breathing pattern.

He showered, shaved and dressed, ready for the morning. He carried his shoes with him as he tiptoed, sock-footed through the bedroom and out the door, wanting to give Mary a bit of a lie-in before she had wake up and prepare for her day.

He switched the kettle on, put bread in the toaster and boiled an egg. After he finished cooking his breakfast, he sat down at the tiny table in the kitchen, reaching for his own leather messenger bag, brown, not black like Violet’s. He took out his laptop and the memory stick Violet gave him two weeks ago.

His guilty conscience still pricked about pulling a gun on her, but he honestly did not know how else he could have determined she was not like The Woman. At least it did prove she was not like The Woman at all. She was better… and she was worse than Irene Adler.

His food and tea cooling, he turned the memory stick over and over in his hands.

I trust you…

Trust me… to do what, Sherlock? To look or not to look?

John flipped his laptop open and switched it on. Once it was booted up, he inserted the memory stick in the correct port.

He moved the cursor over the file that popped up, hesitating.  

John, I promise you, everything you know is wrong…

So what else is new? He thought wearily as he opened the file.

Several video files popped up in a new window. They were dated chronologically in order starting from 6 January 1984.

Sherlock’s eighth birthday.

And Violet’s.

John hit Play then hit Full Screen.

Some sort of playroom filled his screen, the décor so obviously and painfully Eighties. A stringy, small black-haired boy sat slumped on a red sofa, drumming his heels against it, pouting.

Off-screen there was the sound of a door opening and closing. Soon, a pleasingly plump woman, with frosted blonde hair, wearing a pale yellow jumper and denim slacks walked into view and said “Hello, William, my name is Gloria, may I sit here with you?”

The young Sherlock (William, it still disconcerted John to hear anyone call Sherlock by his Christian name) shrugged noncommittally. John mentally reviewed his research on Dr. Gloria Scott. She had been a visionary back in her day, especially dealing with child abuse situations. Her case files were still used as teaching tools in universities across the world today.

This case would not be in any textbook. No one was supposed to know this happened.

“Not very fun, is it, having to spend your birthday here.” she said sympathetically.

The boy shook his head, drew his knees up to his chin and looked away from the doctor.

“Well, how about this,” she said in a cheerful voice, but not using that bright, overly-excited and loud voice adults often used with children. The doctor sounded pleasant but not patronizing. “After we have a bit of a chat, we can go to the vending machine and get a sweet. Would you like a Mars Bars or a Kitkat?”

The boy shook his head.

 “Well, that’s alright, not everyone likes chocolate. I’m afraid I may like it too much.” Sherlock rolled his head back towards the doctor, studying her intensely. John immediately recognized That Look. That Under-the-Microscope Look.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” Dr. Scott smiled gently. “That’s alright too. Some people talk far too much but manage to say very little, wouldn’t you agree?”

A slow, small smile crossed Sherlock’s face and he gave the tiniest nod. 

“I would like to ask you some questions… but since you’re not much for talking, would you mind nodding for yes and shaking for no to let me know if I’m on the right path?”

The smile slipped away, but the little boy nodded his head.

“Lovely. Now, your mum and dad tell me you are very bright, is that right?”

He studied her, perplexed. But he nodded.

“Maybe, instead of sweets, you would like to borrow a book for your birthday treat instead? Would that be nice?”

His eyes brightened. “Really?” he squeaked.

John smiled again. Funny really, hearing a little boy’s soprano instead of the familiar baritone.

 “Of course,” Dr. Scott said, acting like nothing extraordinary had just happened. She gestured to the book shelves. “We have loads. Go pick one out. When you finish it, maybe we can talk about it, would you like that?”

Sherlock grinned and nodded. He scampered off like… well, like a normal little boy given his heart’s desire as a birthday treat. He disappeared off-camera and returned moments later, carrying a thick hard-cover book that probably weighed more than he did.

Of course, John thought affectionately Show-off.

“Well,” Dr. Scott barely hid her surprise at the size of his selection. John wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had downplayed just how bright their little boy really was. Maybe they hadn’t even realized it for themselves yet. “What do we have here?” Sherlock gleefully held the book up for her to see after he had resumed his seat.

“Oh… Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brien… hm… well, that’s actually my book, I must have left in here by accident…”

“I’ve read bigger books than this,” Sherlock preened like a proud little peacock. Eyes aglow with delight, he turned the book around, admiring the dust cover. “Books without pictures, even.”

“Did you pick this because of the picture of the ship on the front? Your mum and dad told me you liked playing pirates, is that right?”

The pleasure drained from Sherlock’s face. He clutched the book to him, as if he expected her to snatch it away from him. But he nodded.

“Do you still like playing pirates?”

The boy’s thin face tensed up as he still clung to the book the same way a frightened child hugs a teddy bear in anxious situations. He shook his head slowly, inching away from her.

John could tell the doctor carefully worded her next question: “Did playing that game get too scary for you?”

The child’s lip wobbled. Other than that, he didn’t move.

Dr. Scott gave him a warm smile, recognizing fear utterly paralyzed him. “Are you scared now?”

He nodded after a very long hesitation.

“Are you scared because you think you might get in trouble if you talk to me?”

He nodded again.

“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured him. “You are not here because you are in trouble. And you won’t get in trouble for anything you say to me.”

“Is this a trick?”

“No. It’s no tri-“

“Because I can tell when people are trying to trick me. I see things other people don’t. Nobody believes me, but it’s true.”

“What kind of things do you see, William?” Obviously the doctor thought the child suffered from some sort of hallucinations. She learned very very quickly he did not:

“You have a guinea pig, there’s hair all over your jumper. You wear jeans instead of a smart suit to work because you think it’ll get the kids to trust you. You just left your husband, there’s an indention in your ring finger where your wedding ring used to be. You eat too many sweets because you’re sad you’re not married anymore, which is stupid because if your husband had been nice, you wouldn’t have left. But he wasn’t nice, was he? He was mean to you.”

Dr. Scott gawped at the little boy.

Tactless as hell, even then John thought, a half-smile lingering on his face.

“Well…” Dr. Scott said a bit breathlessly, and who could blame her, really? If being deduced by an adult Sherlock Holmes was intimidating, being deduced by him as a child must have been a truly terrifying experience. “You are very observant.”

“But nobody listens to me because I’m little,” he said in a hushed voice, hugging his book.

“I’m listening,” Dr. Scott said with a soothing voice. John silently congratulated the woman for recovering so quickly from the little boy’s deduction. “I am here to listen to whatever you need to say. And I promise you will not get into trouble for what you say here. What you say here is private, just you and me.” When he didn’t answer, she asked “Can you see I’m telling the truth?”

He looked her over, from the top of her frosted hair, down to her pastel pink trainers “Yes,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “You are telling the truth. Most adults don’t.”

“Yes, unfortunately that is very spot on,” Dr. Scott said. “Now then, I’m curious, were you able to, err, see why your mum and dad asked me to chat with you?”

“Yes,” he said again, his voice starting to shake.

“And can you tell me what that was?”

“The fire,” his voice was small and tremulous.

“That fire at your mum and dad’s New Year party was pretty scary stuff, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded, his lower lip wobbling again.

“And a boy got hurt during that fire, didn’t he?”

He looked away, trying to curl his body behind the book, using it as some sort of shield.

“He was your brother Mycroft’s friend, Heath, wasn’t he? The boy who got hurt?”

What? John sat straight up in his chair, eyes glued on the laptop screen.

The Official Story was the Earl had been burned during a car crash… coming home from a New Year’s party when he was a young man… a teenager…

“William?” Dr. Scott was asking, her voice very mild. “Do you know how Heath got hurt during the fire?” When he didn’t answer, she asked him “Did you see him get hurt?”

Sherlock looked up at the doctor, trying valiantly not to cry. “It was an accident,” he burst out. “It was an experiment, but the fire spread faster than I thought it would…I… didn’t mean to, I-I just wanted to s-scare him,” the tears flowed now. “I just wanted him to stop hurting me.”

“Oh my God,” John covered his mouth with his hand.  

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

His tea and his food were ice-cold now, but he wasn’t hungry anymore anyway.

…Can you do what I couldn’t… Can you go public with this?

…You bet I can…

 I think you should watch the videos before you commit to that promise…if you can go behind your best friend’s back and learn about what he doesn’t want to talk about with you, of course…

John shook his head, trying to get Violet’s voice out.

Only to hear Sherlock’s instead…

I trust you…

***

30 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Tuesday morning
9:13 AM

Sherlock woke with something very warm and heavy lying across his feet.

Clumsily he raised his head and saw Gladstone sleeping on the foot of the bed.

He couldn’t sit up properly since Violet currently used his arm and shoulder as a pillow, nestled into him. Odd. Disconcerting. And strangely comforting. 

Pinned by the dog and the agent, he let his head flop back down on his pillow. Turning his head to the side, he observed her, sleeping next to him. They hadn’t been spooning, not precisely. Not back-to-belly or anything like that. He was on his side, yes, but she actually lay on her back. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder. One arm dangled over the edge of the bed, the other over her midriff. And his free arm had been draped around her midriff, just underneath where her right arm rested. He could feel her stomach rise and fall with every breath.

Slowly, so not to wake her, with the very tips of his fingers, he gently skimmed down her cheekbone along her jaw, down her throat, finding that scar on her neck.

Moriarty had done that, cut her throat, deep enough to scar. He sought her out, returned her most precious possession, a gift from her beloved brother, the gold watch that she had pawned to the Homeless Network for safe passage out of London.  Then Moriarty attempted to slit her throat but killed her partner instead… but why? What was the point?  

Letting his mind wander, thinking, thinking, always thinking, he wrapped his fingers around one of her curls, just to see what it felt like, touching her hair. It was a curious sensation, observing hair on a living, breathing being rather than as a strand underneath a microscope.

Ahhh of course, he realized. She was spying on me for him. He needed to know the two other people that meant more than the world to me. John, of course, had been obvious. Moriarty needed two more people I was fond of and so he had threatened her… and she had lied… she had the opportunity to bring me to utter ruin… to my knees and she lied to Jim Moriarty…

She had told him Lestrade instead of Molly.

So obvious, but somehow it got buried in his subconscious. The nightmare had brought the facts to light. He had always wondered why Lestrade had been selected to die instead of Molly. Lestrade was, alright, a friend (for lack of a better word), but Molly… she counted.  

Violet, of course, after years of surveillance and research, realized that. She also knew Lestrade had a better chance of defending himself than Molly and that Mycroft had 24 hour surveillance on Baker Street so there was a chance someone would have come to Mrs. Hudson’s aid. Somehow, during whatever hell Moriarty put her through, she managed to keep her wits and… well, do what she did best, didn’t she? She lied her arse off.

Clever girl he thought, lightly running his fingertips over her hair for just the simple pleasure of touching her curls, softer than he had expected, with all the dye-jobs and straightening and God knows what else she had done to her hair over the years.

But stroking her hair was no different than petting Gladstone, it was just a soothing tactile experience that calmed him, it released serotonin or something… … so he firmly told himself.

What else do you have locked up in there, Agent Hunter, in your mind palace? Information shut away in rooms you do not even realize you have. My brother seems to think you possess sensitive information, crucial to National Security, which is possible. I do not care about National Security, why should I? I’ve never been secure or safe in this country. I care about The Work, about solving the riddle as to why the Rouge has been able to maintain such a powerful foothold in London. It should have been fatally crippled when Paris and Rome fell. I can tell Violet is just as frustrated as I am, by the way she chews on pen lids, when she stress-eats the sweets Mrs. Hudson brings us when she thinks I’m not paying attention… which is ridiculous, I’m always paying attention… the way her hand trembles when she’s lost in thought or horribly frightened…  The riddle is a two-part question of course. The first part of the answer is easy. The London cell endures because the money keeps flowing in. The second part of the answer is what is eluding all of us… where is the income’s origin…   

He froze, stopped stroking Violet’s hair.

I’m asking the wrong question. We’ve all been asking the wrong bloody questions. In order to find the source of the money, the where, we need to know the when…

Ecstasy burst through him, warming his entire body, like the first proper sunny day after a long winter. And we have the when… Violet, you did have the answers all along after all, didn’t you?

“Clever, clever girl,” he leaned down and gently as he dared, pecked her on the forehead then slowly slid his arm from underneath her head. He grinned as he ran his fingers down her cheek then bounded out of bed as she stirred, but only to roll over. Gladstone, woken by Sherlock’s movement, seized the opportunity to steal Sherlock’s place in the bed. “Don’t drool on my pillow,” Sherlock scolded the dog softly as he circled the bed, picked up his dressing gown and whipped it on like a king donning his robes of estate.

He entered the lounge, eyes darting everywhere until he spied Violet’s iPad on the sofa. She had been working, not watching television last night, the little liar.

Quickly and easily cracking her password, he tapped on the Excel program to open it. When the worksheets, the real bookkeeping for the money laundering filled the screen, he positively jumped for joy. “Ah, of course, of course… well played. Well played.” He spun around, dancing a waltz with the tablet. He locked the screen and put the iPad on the desk, dancing in place again, this time like a footballer after making the World Cup winning goal. The game was back on. Now was his turn to make a move… alone.

Yes, alone he thought, throwing open the curtains, overjoyed to see the street clear of the dratted paparazzi. The sun shone, promising to be a fine day. Time to remind these bastards who they are dealing with, I’ve been caged up for far too long. Time to spread my wings, stretch out my talons and strike, snatch up the rats and the sheep and end this once and for all. Yes, time to be Sherlock Holmes.

John will be busy at surgery, as far as Violet… his mind whirled. How to occupy her? And how to hide from Mycroft that he left Violet unattended, unsupervised?

Drug her, of course. Obviously.

No scratch that, I flushed the muscle relaxers… wait…

He did a sharp about-face and nearly skipped back into the bedroom, sidestepping the traitorous floorboard that had creaked when Violet had broken in all those years ago. Once in his room, he silently tiptoed to his wardrobe and opened it slowly so not to disturb Violet. He examined his clothes until he found the suit he had wore the night he had drugged Gladstone/ He slipped his hand into the jacket pocket and found the pill John tried tricking him into taking. A bit covered with fluff, but it will do.

He looked over his shoulder, studying the woman asleep in his bed.

She could come with, she could be useful…

No. Better she stay put. While she and John had been most helpful with this highly fascinating case, this victory belonged to him. He found the missing link. He solved this. He would bring Jack Woodley to justice. He would destroy the London Rouge cell. This was his conquest.

And he would finally be one step closer to the Earl. One step closer to revenge… Rache. 

He hadn’t decided what he would do the Earl once he had him… but he hadn’t ruled out Bear’s prediction: … you will kill the Earl and your brother will cover those deaths up…

…Then Violet will be finally free from the Rouge.

And so will I. Sherlock thought, selecting a shirt and suit to wear then heading towards the bathroom for a quick shower and shave. Today promised to be very busy indeed.

Excellent.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen: The Solitary Cyclist

Wearing his good blue dressing gown (as usual) Violet walked out of Sherlock’s bedroom later that morning. She found him lying on the couch in his “Thinking Pose”, flat on his back, fingers steepled, eyes closed. “How are you feeling?” she asked cautiously, tying up her disorderly curls into a sloppy bun on top of her head.

“Fairly well, considering,” he said, not opening his eyes. Wouldn’t do to raise her suspicion by being too polite but also wouldn’t do to anger her by being too rude either.

Noticing the sunlight streaming in through the open curtains, she said “Mycroft came through?”

“Mm,” Sherlock still didn’t move. Then he added “I did take the beast out. You’re welcome.”

“I swear, I think you like him more than I do.”

“He doesn’t talk. I like most anything that does not speak.”

“He speaks,” Violet smiled mischievously as the Alsatian came out of the kitchen. “Stone, bellen.” The dog began emitting a series of high-pitched yips until she said “Stille.”

“Impressive,” Sherlock said in a voice indicting he felt otherwise. He swung his legs around, popping up from the sofa like a jack-in-the-box. “There’s loads of work to do.” He stood up, crossed his arms and studied all the pictures and maps pinned and taped to the wall.

“I think, now we finally have a breather from the paparazzi, we should go back to Bear’s old apartment,” Violet said. “I still think we missed something there.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Sherlock said. “We’ll go there later this evening.  But first, I want to revisit the timeline, starting back from when your former firm began laundering money for the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase.”

“You mean,” Violet said, standing next to him, her arms crossed as well “When the Rouge referred criminals and gangs to send their dirty money to us for laundering.”

“That as well, but surely, my dear Agent Hunter, they must have washed their own money through your agency as well as it came from other criminal organizations.”

Violet rubbed her eyes. “Yeah, OK. I’m going to need some coffee first. Want some?”

“Black,” he said, frowning in faux concentration. But the minute she turned away from him, he smirked. After a fortnight of stagnation, how wonderful it was to have a bit of fun again.

He sat down in his chair, masking his delight behind an austere face when she came out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee. “Thank you,” he said, taking a mug from her. “Obviously, your former firm was not the only vendor the Rouge used for money laundering services. There has to be some sort of schedule, some time-table when the money came to CBF and the other fronts to be filtered into legitimate income streams.”

“Sherlock,” Violet sat curled up in “John’s” chair, feet tucked underneath her. “We’ve been through this before, over and over. There is no pattern, no rhyme or reason when the money came in. We kept everything random on purpose.”

“Nothing is random in this universe,” Sherlock said, sipping his coffee then made a disgusted face. “You forgot the sugar!”

“You didn’t ask for sugar, you said ‘black’.”

“I always take my coffee black with two sugars.”

“Get your own damn sugar.”

Sherlock looked at Gladstone “Bellen.”

“Stille!” Violet yelped as Gladstone started barking.

“Bellen.”

“STOP IT,” Violet snapped at Sherlock then ordered Gladstone to “Stille” again. Glowering at Sherlock, she said “You’re going to keep doing that until I get your damn sugar, aren’t you?”

Sherlock produced an angelic smile.

“You are such a pain in the ass,” she grizzled, getting up, snatching Sherlock’s cup and stalked off into the kitchen. The minute she left the room, Sherlock burst out of his chair, pulling out of his trouser pocket a very small envelope which contained the muscle relaxer he had crushed into a fine powder while Violet had slept. Quickly he poured the powder into her coffee, swished it around with his finger for a bit then in a blink in an eye, was back in his chair before Violet came back out, with his coffee properly made, with two sugars.

“Here,” she thrust the mug at him. “Happy?”

“Quite,” Sherlock said, wiping his wet fingers on his trousers when she wasn’t looking. “Now, about my deduction-“

“Sherlock, I know it’s a blow to your massive ego, but you’re wrong. When the money was received has nothing to do with anything…”

And so they went around and around, as they tended to do. Except this time, after Violet finished her coffee, instead of perking up, she looked quite sluggish, her eyes out of focus.

“Everything alright?” Sherlock asked blandly after Violet had stared blearily at the same page of her notebook for over a minute. She had been taking notes as she drank her coffee.

She shook her head. “I feel strange,” she said thickly, putting her hand to her forehead. Then she held her hand in front of her face, flexing her fingers. “Sherlock, something’s wrong,” she started slurring her words. “I feel really… bad. I’m… dizzy and…and so… sleepy. But that doesn’t make any sense…” she tried to put the pen and notepad on the little side table but her coordination was off. She knocked over her empty coffee mug in the process.

With a tremulous left hand, she tried to set the mug to rights. Then, blinking, she noticed a fine grainy residue inside the mug. She didn’t take sugar with her coffee.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” she slurred, standing up, only to weave unsteadily on her feet.

Faster than she expected, Sherlock bounded up from his chair and caught her before her legs completely gave way. “I apologize for the inconvenience but other than binding your wrists and chucking you into a closet, this was the only way I could ensure you would stay here. You see, you were wrong,” he gloated as she struggled to keep her eyes open. “Everything has to do with when the dirty money was received. And I’m off to prove it.”

“Hate you…” she garbled out. “So much…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Sherlock cradled her. “The amount I gave you should only make you drowsy, not incapacitate you like the amount John tried to give me or what I gave Gladstone. You should just give in to sleep and when you awake, Jack Woodley will be in custody.”

She tried to hit him, swinging wildly but missed. Her head lolled to one side, then jerked up. Sherlock caught her face with his hand and stroked her cheekbone with his thumb “Stop fighting it Violet.” Her pupils were dilated. Won’t take much longer… he thought. “Just go to sleep, just for a bit. All will be well when you wake…”

Soon her eyes finally fluttered shut, her body dead weight. Sherlock lifted her, her arms flailed about limply, her head and legs dangled. Gladstone circled Sherlock and Violet, whining.

“Steady on, Gladstone, it’s all right,” he crooned to the dog as he carried Violet to his bedroom.  

Noting how she had neatly made his bed after she had woken for the day, he gently placed her right in the middle, positioning her on her side. She shouldn’t vomit, but one couldn’t be too careful. He went to the linen closet, found a shock blanket he had forgotten he had nicked and covered her. Gladstone whined again, pacing around the bed. In perfect German, Sherlock gave the commands for “Up” and “Lay Down”. Gladstone obeyed, jumping on the bed, lying down besides his mistress, resting his muzzle right on top of Violet’s curly head.

“Don’t drool on her either,” Sherlock told the dog, taking the Belstaff and his scarf off the hook of his bedroom door. As he flung it on, his mobile on the nightstand vibrated.

“Right on cue,” he said, triumphant, reading the name on the Caller ID display. Why do people continually insist on trying to deceive him?  “What?” he barked into the phone, pretending to listen. He argued, for show, really. It wouldn’t do to be too eager, now would it? “Fine,” he said after a little bit of bickering. “I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes, just promise not to talk. At all.”

He rang off. Looking down at his drugged… companion, he blew an exasperated breath through his nose then admitted out loud. “This isn’t just to feed my ego, Violet. I am not a sadist. It would truly distress me of something unfortunate befell you.” 

Violet responded to Sherlock’s confession with a hearty snore. Gladstone gave him a reproachful look with his big doggy brown eyes.

“Oh shut up,” he snapped at the dog. Then with a swirl of his coat, he was gone.

**

Mycroft departed Westminster in a fouler mood than usual, and not just because lunchtime had come and gone. Parliament had been more infuriating than usual, especially with Lord Cullen-Culpepper had crawled upon his soapbox again, grandstanding how British tax money would be put to better use to subsidize educational programs instead  of the already overfunded military and intelligence departments. After all, what would directly benefit the children of Britain more? Bombs or books?

Oh yes Mycroft thought astringently. We all know how much you love children, don’t we?

During this morning’s session in the House of Lords, Mycroft sat far in the back, in the shadows, listening with growing disconcertion. Listening to the Earl propose slashing the military and intelligence budget. His budget, his lifeline. The CCTV cameras, Baskerville, all the labs, the military bases, the secret airstrips. All of England’s secrets.

Yes, on the surface, it sounded like a brilliant idealistic plan, didn’t it? Bombs or books indeed.

And the bloody sheep in the galley were nodding and agreeing, awed and inspired by his lovely words and his hideous face.

Sherlock needed to hurry up and bloody find Jack Woodley.

Mycroft fumed as he waited outside for his car as tourists wandered about, snapping pictures of the palace and Big Ben. He had approved the request to increase surveillance on not just his little brother but also the doctor and the FBI agent and it was all for naught. Oh, it had been amusing to watch the scrapes Sherlock and his new…  whatever… got into. And whoever’s idea it was to move all the dirty money into Jack Woodley’s private offshore account, well it was a brilliant, cold-hearted move. The criminals were searching for Mr. Woodley more diligently than MI-6. Last Mycroft heard, the price on Mr. Woodley’s head had risen to six million pounds.

They needed to find Jack Woodley before those criminal elements did. They needed Woodley alive. They needed Woodley to connect the Earl to the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase…

As the sleek black government vehicle pulled up to the curb, Mycroft allowed a sinister little smile appear on his lips as he momentarily fantasized the Earl on trial, for all his crimes, humiliated, just as his brother had been wrongly humiliated all these years...

Blast it Sherlock, he thought as he slid into the back seat of the car. Hurry up.

Maybe the American was too much of a distraction. Maybe Sherlock needed to know the Earl planned on dismantling MI-6 and the Secret Service as per the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase’s directives, therefore removing all the protection Mycroft had built around Sherlock all his adult life. Seemed only fair, since he couldn’t protect him when he had been a child.

If only, Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his seat Sherlock could turn that highly tuned perception of his towards himself. If only he’d realize Mycroft’s detachment served to protect Sherlock. Mycroft had enemies too. Enemies who made Moriarty look like a fluffy little bunny rabbit. Mycroft felt a wave of actual nausea when he thought what those people would do to Sherlock… if they realized how much he did truly care about his only sibling…

Even though Sherlock’s presence drove him mad, even though Sherlock made it so easy for Mycroft to make venomous comments at his expense. It’s… what they did. Some families hugged. Sherlock and Mycroft insulted.

But that night in the library at the country estate, that night John and Mary had to come collect Sherlock because Mycroft had gone too far… said the unmentionable, the unforgivable…

Next time you plan a suicide, finish the job…

St. Bart’s was never a suicide nor was confronting Magnussen Sherlock had sniped back. Dying is boring...

And Mycroft had been unable to stop himself. I wasn’t talking about The Fall or The Shooting, now was I? You didn’t think dying was so boring back in ’08, did you?

Sherlock had thrown the first punch. And the fragile attempt they had made to rebuild their fraternal relationship had been shattered by one cruel remark…

Mycroft rubbed his eyes. He wanted a stiff drink. And a huge slice of cake. With loads of icing.

Damn his diet.

His mobile vibrated. He fished it out of his pocket. His eyes widened when he read the text.

“Smaug Alert.”

“This is not happening,” Mycroft seethed. “Let me out,” he snapped at his driver. “I’ll walk.”  The driver, used to the man’s cold demeanor, pulled over at the first opportunity that presented itself. Mycroft, in his rush, forgot his umbrella in the car, but no matter. The driver would return it to his office, as he often did when Mycroft left it behind.

He could give a damn about his umbrella right now anyway.

He rearranged his face, trying to look like an ordinary businessman walking back to work after a satisfying lunch. He hit a speed-dial number and put the mobile to his ear.

“Where,” he demanded in an icy voice “the holy hell is my brother?”

**

Hours after Sherlock had left her, the drug finally wore off. Violet bolted awake with a sharp gasp. Gladstone whined. 

Pushing her hair off her face, she scrambled off the bed and hit the floor running “Sherlock!” she called out, entering the lounge. “Sherlock…” she looked around. “You got to be kidding me,” she ran her hand down her face.

Slowly, it dawned on her this was the first time she had been alone in over two weeks.

I could run she thought I can still do it. I still have the app to disable CCTV. I can disappear.

She looked around the flat. Ugly Victorian wall paper with a crazy bright yellow smiley face spray painted on the walls. Bullet holes in the walls. That creepy headphone-wearing cow head thing, the even uglier rugs. The mismatched furniture. A copy of The Secret Life of Bees stabbed into the wall instead of the board game. Books and papers and test tubes and tea cups and microscope slides and mismatched socks everywhere… except his bedroom, which was always neat as a pin.

Gladstone nudged his nose into her hand. Looking down at him, she scratched his ears with a small smile, feeling the fantasy of running slipping away. Staying in this shabby old flat made her feel completely safe for the first time in years.

Plus, she had made a promise: I’m not going anywhere. Not for a while anyway… for once in her life, she would very much like to keep at least one of her promises…

Besides… running from Sherlock Holmes? Hiding from him? Yeah, good luck with that…

He got bored Violet decided, turning back down the hallway, towards the bathroom, intending on taking a shower. Should have seen this coming, it really was only a matter of time before he went… all Sherlock.

Well, she reasoned as she turned on the shower then stripped off his shirt and her leggings. At least he drugged me and not himself. Wonder what he’ll do when I tell him I found his little emergency stash box and I had gotten rid of the morphine? Serves him right, the jackass.  

After bathing and cleaning her teeth, she more or less felt human again. Wrapped only in a giant towel, with her hair also bundled up into a towel, she left the bathroom, intending to go up into John’s room to select something to wear… along with whatever dress shirt of Sherlock’s she decided to nick. Really, it was highly entertaining watching that vein pulse in his forehead when she claimed one of his shirts.

But she paused in the lounge, spying her own mobile, right where she had left it last night. On the floor, next to the sofa… she frowned. She had been working, reviewing her old bookkeeping files on her iPad. She had left her iPad on the sofa when she heard Sherlock calling John’s name and Molly’s name from his bedroom. That happened more frequently than the Great Detective would care to admit, but Violet had bolted to his room when he started to say “Please” and “Don’t” over and over and found him in the grips of some sort of PTSD nightmare. In her haste while getting off the sofa to see what was wrong, she had dropped her Smartphone…

But I had left my iPad on the sofa. Her eyes swept the room, spying the iPad on the computer desk. Sherlock had been lying on the sofa when I woke up. He moved it, sure… but as he would say “Nothing is random in this universe.”

“He cracked my password,” she groaned.”And the case,” she added even though Gladstone was the only one listening.

She found herself out of sorts that he had taken off to apprehend the villains without her. Ego ego ego she thought bitterly, holding the towel tightly to herself as she bent down to pick up her mobile.

Then she sat down, frowning, trying to remember. In her druggy fog, she thought Sherlock was trying to tell her something, something important…

… ego…  sadist … distress me … fell …

She shook her head. Whatever it was, she would find a way to make him repeat it when he got back. He owed her that for leaving her behind. She had so badly wanted to see the look on Jack Woodley’s face when the handcuffs were slapped on him… or when the bullet went through his heart. Either option was just fine with her.

Violet pulled up Sherlock’s name in her mobile and tapped out a text to him:

“Ha ha, very funny – VS”

She had almost put “VH”. Careful Violet, don’t get too comfortable she reminded herself as she hit Send. Just because you feel safe, doesn’t mean you are safe. 

She tossed the cell phone on the sofa and went up to John’s room to get dressed. When she came down, she wore a very “Violet Smith” outfit: khakis trousers and a pretty white cashmere sweater, deciding against raiding Sherlock’s wardrobe after all. Judging by the sunlight, it looked like a fairly decent day in London. Now that the paparazzi were finally gone, she could take Gladstone on a nice long walk. That would take the wind out of Sherlock’s sails, to have him return to the flat in triumph, only to have no one around to listen to him gloat. 

Of course, she’d have to finish drying her hair. And straighten it. She sighed as she continued to towel dry it when she sat back down on the sofa again. Maybe I should just chop it all off again, she thought, glancing at her cell phone.

No response.

Maybe he was busy… she started to tell herself, but then she put the towel down. No… Sherlock Holmes always had time to brag. Frowning at the cell phone, she sent another text:

“Your brother is going to have a stroke when he finds out you left me here alone – VS”

There. That would get a response.

Except, it didn’t.

Something is wrong.

The thought came as clear and as unbidden as if it wasn’t really her thought at all, as if it had been a voice she heard from a radio or television set. Her “spidey sense”…

Someone walking over her grave…

She never told Sherlock about her gut instinct, her strange flashes of intuition. She never told him for the simple fact he would have laughed in her face.

She did not want to deal with him mocking her but she also learned a long time ago, to never disregard these unbidden thoughts, these funny twinges in her gut.

Not caring he might take the piss out of her if she was overreacting, she texted:

“Seriously, where are you? – VS”

Waited.

Nothing.

She texted again:

“When are you coming back – VS” 

Waited.

Nothing.

Another text:

“I need you – VS”

Then another:

“You promised me… day or night, you would be by my side – VS”

When there was still no response, she jumped off the sofa and ran back up to John’s room to change into something more practical.

She could feel it in not just in her gut, but in her bones, in her very soul.

Sherlock was in trouble.

**

John, meanwhile, struggled all day at the surgery, his mind clearly elsewhere. Anna, the grumpy office manager finally got fed up and started to tell him off for his inattention and his rotten attendance. She chose the wrong day. John leaned forward and coldly, calmly gave her a piece of his mind, using words that would have chilled both Holmes brothers to the core.

In between appointments, he watched what he could of the therapy session videos Violet had given him. He even skipped lunch, choosing to drink bad coffee and eat two packets of crisps so he could continue watching. Horrified, he pieced together what happened all those years ago… a deviant even back then, the future Earl… Heath… (the childish nickname disgusted John beyond words for some inexplicable reason) had manipulated both Sherlock and Mycroft into thinking if Sherlock didn’t submit to his… demands, Heath’s father would ruin their father, financially, publically, in every way imaginable.

When the situation became intolerable, Sherlock fought back the only way he knew how… with an experiment. An experiment that went horribly wrong and then hushed up. 

But something didn’t ring true to John… Sherlock, God, look at him… he had been horribly underweight for an eight year old and there was no sign of the eventual growth spurt that would skyrocket him up to six foot tall. Of course he couldn’t fight back, not physically.

Mycroft had been fourteen fucking years old, going on fifteen. John had gathered from Sherlock’s taunts Mycroft had been quite husky in his youth. He could have fought the fight Sherlock couldn’t. What had Heathcliff done to Mycroft to make him turn his back on his tiny, battered brother? Something huge, something horrifying… financial ruin would have not been enough to frighten Mycroft… they were The Holmes, after all. They would have endured.

There was something missing from this equation, but John couldn’t work it out. Not yet.

But he knew why no one came forward, why it was covered up. In order to expose the Earl for the monster he really was, Sherlock would have to be exposed as the victim. In turn, the Earl would reveal the scars weren’t really from a car crash, oh no, they came from Mycroft Holmes’ psychopathic little brother… you know… the freak who faked his death nearly four years ago?

… and the villain who got away with murdering Charles Augustus Magnussen?

Shot him in cold blood, didn’t he?

John clasped his hands as if in prayer and rested his forehead against them. I don’t know what to do… he thought desperately. I wish we would have met, years and years earlier. Maybe even when we were kids, I’m a bit older than him, true, but I would have been his friend, I know I would have. I would have told him to tell someone, a teacher, a cop… just someone…

…nobody listens to me because I’m little…

John rubbed his eyes, then ran his hand down his face again. That was true, unfortunately.  They had also ignored him about Carl Powers’ murder because he had been only a child then as well. No, the boy had to set someone on fire to get anyone to pay attention to him.

Right, he thought, checking the time on his mobile. I’m going straight to Baker Street after this appointment. I’m not going behind Sherlock’s back anymore. I will ask him directly how the Earl manipulated Mycroft into not interfering and I will not stand for any half-truths or evasions. He stood up, put on his white lab coat, adjusted his stethoscope and slipped his mobile in his coat pocket, heading out of his office to Exam Room One, locking his office door behind him.

The last appointment fortunately was just standard physical for an older gentleman, a jovial man in his mid to late sixties. He had the face and hair of an old lion and a kindly smile.

Easy, quick, routine.

“Right then,” John typed out the rest of his notes into the tablet. He had embraced the change-over from paper files to digital. Many of the older nurses and doctors had groused and resisted. “Everything looks good, Mr. Kincaid. Blood pressure is good, weight is good. We’ll know more when we get the blood results back, but I’d say you’re healthier than most men half-your age. How’s your knee feeling?”

“Pretty good, now that we’ve switched from pills to injections,” Mr. Kincaid said cheerfully. “Not pleasant getting stabbed every week, but I feel a difference. Arthritis doesn’t seem so bad now.”

“Good,” John smiled pleasantly. “Then we’ll continue with the current treatments. Now, the nurse will show you where you need to go to have your blood drawn so we can check your cholesterol and glucose levels, yes?”

“Right after I tell you I don’t like being stabbed, you send me off to be a pin cushion,” the old man laughed.

“Sorry,” John said as the old man slid off the exam table under his own steam. He did hand Mr. Kincaid his cane “Can’t be helped. Wish there was a better way, I’m not a fan of needles either.”

“You are an extraordinarily kind man, Dr. Watson,” Mr. Kincaid said, leaning on his cane, digging into his pocket. “I feel the need to give you this.” He held out a small, thin black box.

“Uh…err,” John shook his head. “Not necessary. Just doing my job.”

“It is necessary,” the old man held the box out to him. “You see… I admire you.”

John felt his blood turn to ice “You.”

“Me,” the old man’s smile was not so kindly anymore.

“You followed me into the City,” John said slowly, eyes narrowing. “You sat next to me at that bus stop, pretending not to remember Sherlock Holmes’ name.”

“I did,” the old man nodded. “I also sent you that text. Waste of time giving your mobile to The Met, but I assume that action reassured your wife?”

John immediately saw red “Leave Mary out of this.”

“Oh,” he said dismissively. “We’re not interested in the nurse. Not yet, anyway, but here,” he held the black box out to John again. “Speaking of texts… this box started vibrating right before my appointment.”

John snatched the box from the old man and ripped the lid off. His throat closed when he saw the contents.

Sherlock’s mobile.

“Go ahead,” the old man leaned on his cane. “Read the texts. I already did.”

John clenched his teeth tightly together, took the mobile out of the box and scrolled through the texts, heart pounding like mad:

“Ha ha, very funny – VS”
“Your brother is going to have a stroke when he finds out you left me here alone – VS”
“Seriously, where are you? – VS”
“When are you coming back – VS” 
“I need you – VS”
“You promised me… day or night, you would be by my side – VS”

John jerked his head up. “Why?” he asked, knowing it would be pointless to ask where Sherlock was or what they had done to him.

“Because the Great Detective has become a Great Pain in our Arse and we are tired of him,” the old man said with an air of great lassitude.

“So,” John bluffed “Just kill him out right then. Why the games?”

“Where is the fun in that?” the old man smiled. “But you’re a straightforward kind of man, an honest man, you would never understand the pleasure of pulling puppet strings.”

“I know the pleasure of pulling a trigger.”

“You’d shoot an unarmed elderly man in a surgery?” Mr. Kincaid tut-tutted. “And how will that get Sherlock Holmes back? Oh yes, you see,” he said with an understanding nod. “We are giving you a chance to do what you couldn’t do four years ago. Save your friend from himself. Save him from another Fall, from another public disgrace.”

“Why?” John asked again, struggling to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“Why not?” the old man said, still with that funny smile on his wrinkled face. “I was telling the truth, Dr. Watson. I do admire you. As entertaining as Mr. Holmes can be, it was always you I enjoyed watching work. The Virgin was always a bit too… boastful for my taste. But, perhaps that is no longer an accurate code name for him. Did the American relieve him of his virginity?” he asked curiously. “We all know Janine didn’t, despite her claims otherwise.”

“What?” John’s mouth went utterly dry.

“You don’t think I’ve been in contact with Jack Woodley? Oh and by all means, please let Agent Hunter know that was a brilliant move on her part, moving all that money into Jack’s personal accounts, making it look like he stole from, well, every criminal element present in England.”

Oh God John wanted nothing more than to launch himself across the room and pummel this old horror to death. But the old horror’s next words stopped him cold:

“Also, please extend Miss Hooper my congratulations on the new baby. Since she was such a…” he wetted his upper lip with his tongue “Special Friend to Jim Moriarty, we have taken a bit of an interest in her and her welfare, and her offspring, of course. Shame no one knows who the father is… but there are theories… very interesting theories… maybe it wasn’t the American who deflowered the Great Detective after all? He was spotted entering Miss Hooper’s block of flats very late in the evening last January. He didn’t leave until later the following afternoon… it fits the timeline, don’t you think?” The old man leaned forward on his cane “Oh, but I am being insensitive, of course. You and Mary must have suffered dreadfully after you lost your daughter. Nearly lost Mary too in the process, didn’t you? But I’m sure, if it was meant to be, you’ll be a father someday too… John.”

“Get out,” John said, hiding his abject terror behind his soldier’s stance: back rigid, shoulders square. “Get out of here.”

“Don’t you want to know the rules?” The old man sounded unruffled, as if they were just having a pleasant chat about the weather. “It’s an easy game to play. One Sherlock played quite frequently, usually with you in tow. You are allowed an assistant for this game… the federal agent, bring her along. In fact, I insist that you do.”

“What if I don’t want to play?” John shrugged. “Like you implied, I’m a simple man. I don’t enjoy games and puzzles the way Sherlock does.”

The old man shuffled away from John, gathering his coat and hat. “Remember when I said about how we’re not interested in the nurse…yet?” He looked over his shoulder. “Oh good, I have your attention. The rules are simple,” he said as he pulled his coat on. “It’s a scavenger hunt, really. We send you clues. You figure out where to go. If you deduct the correct locations, eventually, you’ll find the detective. Oh, but there is one catch…” he paused to make sure John was still listening.

John was, but he also felt his mobile vibrating in his coat pocket. Violet… he thought.

“If you or Agent Hunter or both are caught by one of our people, game over… and no help… no Scotland Yard, no Mycroft Holmes. Can’t make it too easy for you, of course, but we are not remorseless,” he winked. “Consider 221B Baker your safe haven. We won’t touch you while you’re there, but once you and Agent Hunter walk out that front door, the game is on. Oh and one last thing…”

“What?” John kept his voice deliberately quiet, giving the old man a cold little smile.

“James Moriarty sends his regards,” He doffed his hat at John “Cheerio.”

Just like that, he hobbled out the door. Just a crippled old man, harmless.

John pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket and dialed “Violet, I can’t talk, but under no circumstance are you to leave 221B or let anyone but me in, do you understand?”

“John, Sherlock’s not answering his phone.”

“I know,” John clutched Sherlock’s mobile tightly, hastily leaving the surgery, making a beeline to his office, thankful he had the good sense to lock his door before leaving “Stay put.”

“OK. Hurry,” was all she said before ringing off.

Snatching his computer, keys and coat, John left without saying goodbye to anyone. As he waited for a cab, he rang Mary. Please answer, please answer, please answer…

“Hello love,” her voice was warm and caring.

His wasn’t. “Mary, do not go home tonight. The people responsible for breaking into our terrace house came to the surgery just now. They have Sherlock.”

There was dead silence for a beat too long. But finally she replied, steady enough “Right. I’m coming with you. I’ll meet you at Baker Str-”

“No. Absolutely not,” he ordered her, hating himself for being so terse. Then he said quickly “Molly. Your priority is Molly Hooper. I’m on my way to get Violet and Mrs. Hudson out of the line of fire. You protect Molly. They know she’s important to him and they know she’s pregnant.”

“Oh God, no,” she breathed.

 “Do what you can to keep her safe.”

“Yes of course. I’ll call Greg and I’m heading to the morgue right now. John?”

“Yeah?”

She whispered, apparently afraid of being overheard. “I love him too. Bring him home.”

John closed his eyes, fighting what Sherlock would derisively call sentiment “And I love you. So so much. Stay safe.”

“Love you,” she whispered and rang off just as the cab pulled up.

“221B Baker Street,” John said. “Step on it.”

When the cab finally pulled up in front of Baker Street, John texted Violet to let him know he had arrived. He took the stairs two at a time as he rushed up to the flat.

He knocked on the door and said “It’s me.”

Violet opened the door and stood aside to let him in. John saw she had not been idle nor in a panic since he had called her. He noticed her guns and extra ammunition lay on the coffee table, the guns locked and loaded. Next to those were her knives, two prepaid mobiles, and a pair of leather gloves. A black hoodie and her leather jacket (the same one she had wore when they fled her flat on Hartwill) were draped neatly over Sherlock’s chair. In the chair itself was a small black handbag. All gadgets, other than Sherlock’s ancient desktop computer, were nowhere in sight. Many of the pictures and maps that had been hanging on the wall had disappeared. And for some reason, she had built a fire in the fireplace.

“I’m creating a ruse,” Violet pointed to the dying fire. “The minute we walk out of this apartment, it’ll be searched. They’ll think we burned all the essential information when in reality, they’ll never find it. Assuming Gladstone doesn’t get to them first, but they could shoot him.” She crossed her arms. She was very pale, so pale every freckle on her face popped out. But she was calm and composed. “Tell me everything,” she said briskly.

 As John succinctly told her what happened, he noted how she plaited her hair very tightly then twisted the tail into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her top was a dark navy blue, almost black in color. Her trousers looked like black denim breeches and she wore boots that looked distinctly military. There was nothing “Violet Smith” about her now. She was definitely Agent Hunter through and through. Prepared for battle. All she needed was her old FBI badge.

And here he was like a prat, still in his suit and tie from work. He tugged his tie loose, then off when he finished talking, throwing it aside like the useless bit of cloth it was.

Violet closed her eyes, drawing her brows together tightly “Dammit. They set us up. The paparazzi,” she explained when John gave her a puzzled look. “They penned us up here, trapped us like rats because when Sherlock makes mistakes-”

“It’s usually because he’s bored,” John groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “But are you sure the Rouge called the paparazzi just to torment him into making a mistake?”

“I would,” Violet said then reminded him “I did, remember? When we first met? It’s common knowledge he hates the press. I wanted to screw with him and apparently so does the Rouge.”

“And us,” John said grimly.

Violet knelt to put the fire out. John saw she had a gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers. “What would Sherlock do?” she asked him over her shoulder as she smothered the fire, leaving bits of charred papers and photographs here and there, making it look burning the documents was a hasty, panicked decision.

“You’re the profiler, you tell me!”

“You’re his best friend, you tell me!”

John took a deep breath. “He would say… the rules are wrong.”

She nodded. “He would… and he’s right. They overestimate him and they underestimate us. That can work to our advantage. They’ll expect us to be scared into following their every rule.”

“So we break the rules?”

“We do more than break the rules,” Violet stood up, dusting her hands off. “We cheat like hell.”

There was a knock at the door. Both Violet and John froze. “Yoo-hoo! Violet? Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson.

Violet shooed John away from the door. John quickly slipped into the kitchen, taking one of Violet’s guns with him as he walked past the table. Violet nodded her approval as she opened the front door a crack. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” she said, her voice pathetic… and British.

“My dear, are you ill?”

“A bit, yes,” Violet Smith said pitifully. “I think it’s the flu, I’m so sorry for being rude by not inviting you in, but I feel really dreadful. Is there something you need? Sherlock’ll be back later, I sent him out. He was driving me mad.”

“Oh no, dear, I’m just bringing you a parcel. The postman left it for me by mistake, but it clearly says “Ms. Smith” on it, the silly man.”

“Yes,” Violet said faintly “Silly man.”

“You really do look quite peaky,” Mrs. Hudson worried. “Should I bring you some soup? Or tea?”

“No, I’m … my stomach is … I just need to sleep. Thank you though, you’re too kind.”

“Oh, well… I’m just glad you’re here dear. I,” Mrs. Hudson hesitated. “Sherlock won’t like me saying this, but he was so lonely before you came along. Hurt my heart to see him trying to carry on without John here. You’ve been good for him.”

“Well… bless you, Mrs. Hudson.”

John thought the quaver in Violet’s voice might have been real.

“Get some rest dear. Oh! Your parcel.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Violet took the box, wishing she had gloves on. Once Mrs. Hudson left, Violet called out in her “true” voice “Stone, come.”

John came out of the kitchen just as Gladstone finished sniffing the box then trotted off, losing interest.  “Good to know the first clue isn’t a bomb.”

Violet knelt and put the box on the table while John hovered. “You ready for this?”

“No.”

She smiled halfheartedly, drawing on her gloves then reached for one of her knifes, the switchblade, pressing the button so the blade popped out. Carefully, she slit the plain brown paper away from the box, her hazel eyes scouring every inch of the paper and the box for a potential clue.

If Sherlock had been there, he’d be able to tell where the box and paper were from and where the parcel had been posted from.

She flipped the box lid open with the knife. Both she and John peered inside. A small tape recorder, an ancient thing, from the late Nineties, early 2000s lay on packing peanuts inside.

“Really spared no expense,” John muttered.

“They did it on purpose,” Violet carefully took the recorder out and placed it on the table, studying it. “It would take too long for someone at the Met to convert the analog to digital or to transcribe the tape. Plus the distortion from these old tapes makes it difficult to hear any other sounds, something that would give away location.” She looked up at John. He nodded.

She pressed Play. Sherlock’s voice, bored and irritated, droned out from the small speaker “…is this truly necessary? Really, this is so childish.”

A distorted, distant voice grunted “Just read.”

“I’m not kidding. This is stupid. This is obvious. A dinosaur would be able to see through this pathetic plot.”

Faintly there was something that suspiciously sounded like someone clicking back the hammer on a gun. “Fine. Honestly. Children. The lot of you,” he cleared his throat and proceeded… to read a poem, of all things:

“Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover? 
Sad folk, bad folk, and many a glowing lover; 
Wise people, simple people, children of despair -- 
Roof-tops, roof-tops, hiding pain and care. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, O what sin you're knowing, 
While above you in the sky the white clouds are blowing; 
While beneath you, agony and dolor and grim strife 
Fight the olden battle, the olden war of Life. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, cover up their shame -- 
Wretched souls, prisoned souls too piteous to name; 
Man himself hath built you all to hide away the stars -- 
Roof-tops, roof-tops, you hide ten million scars. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, well I know you cover 
Many solemn tragedies and many a lonely lover; 
But ah, you hide the good that lives in the throbbing city -- 
Patient wives, and tenderness, forgiveness, faith, and pity. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, this is what I wonder: 
You are thick as poisonous plants, thick the people under; 
Yet roofless, and homeless, and shelterless they roam, 
The driftwood of the town who have no roof-top and no home!”

John didn’t recognize the poem itself, but he felt the floor see-saw beneath him. He knew where the Rouge wanted him and Violet to go. But why… oh God…

Were they going to make him jump again?

Was he going to have to watch his best friend fall to his death again? A best friend who was clearly out of miracles?

“There,” Sherlock barked at the end of his recitation. “Happy? Or are we going to sally around more with these idiotic childish clues?”

“Hold him down,” the unknown voice intoned.

“My hands are already bound, is holding me really necessa-” but Sherlock must have noticed something because the timbre of his voice changed immediately from irritated to alarmed. “What is that? What are you doing… no… no no no no, don’t, don’t…” there were sounds of struggling, then a cry of pain. Then the tape stopped.

John and Violet looked at each other. John’s normally friendly face hardened, making him almost unrecognizable. Violet’s face stayed composed except for her lips thinning to the point where they almost disappeared.

Simultaneously, they pulled out the illegal guns they carried, checked the sights, and clicked the safety off. Violet handed John another clip and one of the prepaid mobiles, then tucked her gun back into the waistband of her trousers.

John put the tape recorder in his coat pocket as Violet went to Sherlock’s chair, looped the strap of the handbag over her shoulder then put the hoodie and leather jacket on over it. She walked swiftly back to the table, put the other gun, clip and mobile in her handbag. The switchblade she tucked inside her boot. Straightening, she jerked the hoodie and jacket down; making sure the gun in her waistband was hidden. Looking John dead in the eye, she said quietly “Captain.”

John recognized she was acknowledging his seniority. “Right,” he said, “This way.”

Violet turned the deadbolt, then in German told Gladstone to Guard.

John pitied any fool who tried to break in. Then remembered the terror in Sherlock’s voice on the tape, the cry of pain… then he hoped someone would break in.

The old man said the game would begin when John and Violet walked out the front door. Well, they weren’t going to walk out the front door, now were they? John climbed on his bed and pulled the ladder down from the skylight, then climbed up. Violet followed, pulling the hood over her chestnut hair.

Lifting the skylight window as little as possible, John squeezed through, pulled Violet out, then closed the window as carefully as possible, staying low as possible. Low-crawling on their bellies, they slithered to the fire escape ladder. John rolled over on his back, pulled out his Smartphone and texted Mycroft:

“Red has SH. Sign of 4 Go. The Game is On. St. Bart’s. 999 – JW”

His response took only seconds:

Be careful – MH

“Big help,” Violet snarled as John put the mobile safely on the inside pocket of his coat.

“Yeah,” John said, thinking back, to two weeks ago, after Violet had overtaken Sherlock’s room, after Sherlock had told him he trusted him… John had asked again what Sign of Four meant…

Their signature… what links them to all the crimes they consulted on… when they feel someone must be made an example of, they initiate something called The Sign of Four… first they discredit you… then they torture you, which can be either physical, emotional or both… then they threaten your family… then they kill you…. Messy, prolonged. It’s how they got discovered by the authorities. Couldn’t just have a simple murder, oh no… they had to get… cute about it.

First they discredit you… the press turning on Sherlock about the American ambassador’s children.

Then they torture you…  Moriarty’s mind game with Sherlock… the whole Richard Brooks ordeal… pushed Sherlock’s sanity to the breaking point…

Then they threaten your family… John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

Then they kill you… The Fall… except Sherlock didn’t die like he was supposed to… so now they were tying up loose ends.

As he and Violet climbed down the fire escape, he wondered why he and Violet had been drawn into this game… unless The Sign of Four had been initiated against them as well.

Violet had nothing left to lose. John had everything.

Wait… She had already been discredited, her own country disavowed her. She had been tortured, by Moriarty. She had her family threatened, her beloved brother murdered… the only thing left was… yes, she was a loose end just like Sherlock… no. No one else is dying on account of these bastards John thought. We’re ending it.

“Come along,” he said to Violet over his shoulder when they reached the alley. Determined, they avoided all the main roads until they absolutely had to, to catch a bus. 

“They’d expect us to catch a cab,” he explained as they hovered by the bus stop.

“Probably have someone in a stolen cab. Waiting to intercept us when we tried to hail one or call for one,” Violet murmured, her eyes flickering everywhere, looking for a threat. 

The first bus ride had been uneventful. This heightened John’s anxiety rather than assuaged it. Violet’s face looked as tense and drawn. As they got off at their stop and waited for their next bus, Violet looked up at one of the CCTV cameras. “Think Mycroft found anything yet?”

“Dunno,” John looked around, using his “Sherlock eyes” to assess the situation. Busy commuters, trying to get home, people bustling around, on their mobiles, trying to flag down taxis, waiting for buses, ducking into cafés and pubs. John looked for anyone that looked out of place… trying to keep his mind clear, trying to keep fear and panic at bay.

Then he saw it, saw her… a woman, an ordinary woman, in an ordinary suit and an ordinary coat, texting. But her eyes had lingered on John for just a second too long… and he saw the small flash from her mobile… no… from her camera phone.

“Come on,” John tugged on Violet’s coat sleeve. “Change of plans.”

She did not question him but followed him silently, her fingers finding his coat sleeve and hanging on as they wove their way through the throngs of people on the crowded pavement.  

A block or so later, John heard Violet say his name very softly.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, not looking behind them “Been following us since the bus stop.”

“So obvious,” she said, in a fair impersonation of Sherlock at his haughtiest.

John cracked the smallest of smiles. “On three, we run. Follow me. Keep your eyes on me.”

Violet nodded, letting go of John’s coat sleeve, looking absolutely nonchalant. No big deal, just strolling through the busy streets of London during rush hour.

“One,” John said, reaching over for her. Now he was the one clasping the sleeve of her coat with his fingertips.

Sharply, he remembered clutching at Sherlock’s coat the same way when they ran, handcuffed to the other, from the cops when they came to arrest them that horrible night so many years ago… when he had been sure Sherlock’s powerful mind was about to shatter from the duress.

“Two,” he said, keeping his voice cool and quiet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a young man in jeans, nice trainers and a Northface jacket taking far too much interest in them…

He took a deep breath… the deep breath before the jump.

“Three!”

Abruptly, he ran into the busy street and Violet unhesitatingly followed. Brakes screeched, horns honked and the Rouge’s foot soldiers gave themselves away by giving chase. John looked behind him to see Violet close on his heels… and to see the young man in the expensive trainers and the Northface jacket get hit by a cab. Good, he thought darkly as his feet hit the pavement. He and Violet sprinted to the nearest Underground stop, pushing past people down a perilously inclined set of escalators leading them down to the tube.

Still running, John fished out his Oyster card and both he and Violet cut ahead in the queue to the chagrin of several commuters. John ignored the shouts and complaints as he scanned his card though, grabbing Violet by the wrist. He pulled her with him, letting her “piggyback” him through the turn sill. The attendant yelled out “Oi!” while some commuters shouted their disapproval as others made comments such like “Was that Sherlock Holmes’ blogger?” and “I think that was Holmes’ bird with Dr. Watson!” and so on. 

Violet and John ignored them all as they dashed through the Underground. Darting around people the best they could, they ran to the first train screeching to a stop. The doors slid open, while a cool voice reminded everyone to “Mind the Gap”. John pushed his way through to the train, rushed through the door, turned and looked for Violet.

He didn’t see her.

Heart in his throat, he scanned the crowd, frantically. Then he saw her, struggling with a man half her age and twice her size. He had grabbed her from behind, by her coat collar and was trying to drag her away. John put one foot outside the train back on the pavement just as she wiggled her way out of her jacket, abandoning it. Seeing John, she barreled towards him at a full run, pushing people out of her way as the same proper voice crackled over the speakers, politely reminding everyone again to “Mind the Gap.” John slammed his hand against the door, (as if his hand could stop a hydraulic system) and held his other hand out “Violet!” he yelled. 

She added a sudden burst of speed like a world class sprinter seeing the finish line. She reached out with her hand and lunged for him. He grabbed her wrist with one hand and the front of her hoodie with the other. He roughly yanked her inside the crowded train, clutching her tight against him. The door slid shut and Violet whirled her head around just in time to see her would-be abductor slam his palm against the window before the train pulled away.

Violet exhaled sharply (a gasp really). She clung to John’s coat sleeves and buried her face into his shoulder, shaking like a leaf. John tightened his arms around her more, feeling a familiar surge of protectiveness race through him, reminiscent of how he felt as a teen when people used to bully Harry for liking girls instead of boys… before she decided to find comfort inside a bottle, of course.

 “Sorry,” she whispered, face still buried in his shoulder “Caught me off guard.”

“No harm done, we’re still here, the game’s still on,” John said, gently pulling her hood over her head. “Try to keep your face covered, people are starting to recogn-“ but he stopped mid-sentence when he felt his mobile vibrate. He pulled it out of his coat pocket with a frown and saw another message from Mycroft:

CCTV compromised. Watch out – MH

“More good news?” Violet lifted her head.

“Oh, the best,” John said, holding his mobile up for her to read.

She closed her eyes “The backdoor to the CCTV. Remember? If you know the code, you can hack in and override the system.”

“Shit, that’s right, that’s how you bypassed the cameras on Baker Street those times you broke in,” John groaned. “We should have told Mycroft have before we began this little adventure.”

“Sherlock overheard that too, when he was supposedly “drugged”.”

“He would have never told Mycroft. He probably thought that was amusing.”

“Or he “deleted: it because he thought it was boring,” Violet said, scanning the map above them. “I have an idea. We’re getting off at the next stop.”

“That’s not St. Bart’s,” John said.

“I know,” Violet said as the train started slowing down. “They are expecting us at one of the stops nearest St. Bart’s. Cabs and buses are out… so…”

“So…?”

“So I have an idea,” she said patiently as the train came to a full stop and the doors slid open. 

John learned quickly Sherlock was not the only one proficient in pick-pocketing. In less than a minute, Violet procured from two unsuspecting commuters a trendy fedora style hat (that actually matched his good coat, incidentally) and a dove-grey scarf with cheerful yellow daisies all over it, something John could see Molly Hooper wearing. Before leaving the Underground, John jammed the hat on his head, pulling the brim down while Violet lowered her hood only to loop the scarf around her head like some sort of veil, hiding her hair and most of her face.

Moving at a normal pace, they rode the escalator up back to street level, mindful of the CCTV cameras, keeping their heads down until Violet turned into the first alley and murmured “Come on,” to John. Reluctantly, John followed, remembering the last time that had happened when he was in a London alley. Only this time, there was no Gladstone as back-up. He realized they were heading towards some sort of parking garage, a private one. “What’s this?” John asked as Violet found the backdoor and was entering some sort of code into the keypad.

“Bear had several vehicles,” she explained as the keypad buzzed and the door unlocked. John followed her inside the gloomy garage, dark and full of spider webs.  But there were several cars lined up in a row “For quick getaways or is someone was tailing us.”

“I don’t know how to drive,” he admitted, removing the fedora, looking at all the cars. Some were very posh, some were quite decrepit. “And you don’t know how to drive in England.”

“I’m not comfortable driving a car in London and I don’t have a legit British driver’s license,” she amended his statement as she pointed to two sheet-covered motorcycles. She strutted over and pulled one of the sheets off, revealing the Triumph Tiger 800XC motorcycle. “This however…” she purred as she ran an appreciative hand over the bike. “Hello beautiful.”

Sherlock’s voice echoed in his head: She’s pedaling a bike intended for use at industrial sites which leads me to believe she didn’t start in the typing pool but as some sort of courier or messenger…

“When you lived in New York,” John asked suddenly as Violet pulled keys out of her handbag “Were you some sort of courier? Delivering packages and letters between businesses?”

She nodded, picking up one of the helmets off of the seat of the motorcycle. “Had zero desire to wait tables while I was at St. Francis. Being a courier was more… fun. Most couriers used bikes, which is what I started with… but then I wanted something…”

“Dangerous?”

“Sexy,” she tossed the helmet at him, which he caught easily. “Also didn’t have a car when I lived near DC. Had a Honda CBR600RR, nothing fancy, but it was cheaper than having a car. Did you figure that out or was it Sherlock?” she asked as she went to the other motorcycle to grab the other helmet.

“It was Sherlock, of course,” John said gruffly, stomach twinging just a bit, hoping his friend was still alive and mostly unhurt. Don’t. Be. Dead… can you do that for me?

She nodded and asked “Do you know how to drive one of these?” When John shook his head, she tossed the helmet at him and said “Get on.” John put the helmet on first and waited for Violet to put her helmet on and climb onto the bike before he gingerly climbed on. He settled himself uncomfortably on the bike seat as she righted the bike and kicked the kickstand up.

“Ah,” he said, trying to find an appropriate place to put his hands. It was one thing to give her a cuddle after a fright when that baddie had grabbed her in the tube. Quite another to practically grope her while on a motorcycle.

Violet apparently didn’t see things the same as he did. “John,” she said through gritted teeth. “Hang onto my waist or you’re going to fall off.” She turned the key and the bike roared to life.

As she slowly wheeled the bike backwards, John tucked his feet up and apprehensively put his hands on her waist. Right, he thought as the bike rolled forward, pausing as Violet stopped to open the actual garage door. This isn’t so bad…

When the garage door closed behind them, Violet revved the throttle and they were off like a shot. Nope, scratch that, I think I’m going to die… John clung to Violet’s waist for dear life as the motorcycle zipped through the alley, splashing through a puddle.

Definitely going to die, he thought dismally when she made several sharp, stomach-twisting turns and soon they were in the heart of London rush hour traffic, weaving in and out in-between cars, buses and lorries. There was one point where Violet had made such a sharp turn, John thought the side of his helmet was going to scrape alongside the road.

At least Sherlock had somewhat remembered Mary had been riding on the back of the motorcycle he hijacked when they came to rescue John from the bonfire. Violet seemed oblivious to John’s presence, even increasing speed as she took the exit which would take them back to St. Bart’s. 

When Violet blatantly blew through a red light, John thought maybe if he ended up as a grease spot on the motorway, they would let Sherlock go out of pity.

Even though they had to backtrack, they still ended up at St. Bart’s sooner than John anticipated. After she brought the motorcycle to a stop and parked it, John pulled the helmet off, his hair sticking up like hedgehog quills. “You drive like a bleeding maniac!”

She pulled her helmet off as well, curls starting to escape the merciless bun and shot him an irritated look “At least I know how to drive,” she snapped, dismounting from the bike. As John did the same, they both looked up automatically at the roof. Both felt relieved and disturbed when they saw only the darkening sky. “What do you think is up there?” Violet asked lowly.

“Nothing good,” John said, running his hand over his mussed hair.

“That’s what I’m afraid off,” Violet said as they started walking on the pavement, turning around the corner, towards the entrance of the hospital.

For some morbid reason, John looked up again.

And saw something huge and black hurtling down towards them.

“Violet!” he cried out, pushing her out of the way, flattening himself and her against the hospital wall just as whatever it was falling from the sky hit the pavement.

“What the hell?” Violet panted, looking up then looking down. Then she gasped “Oh God…”

John just stared in silent horror, his eyes wide. Someone had thrown a coat from the roof…

No… it wasn’t just a coat…it was The Coat.

The Belstaff.

Violet immediately knelt down by the coat, searching its pockets. She pulled out a large rock, grey and ordinary, “John, look, they weighted it dow-” but John had taken off, running towards the entrance, leaving behind his helmet. “John, wait!” she cried, then muttered “Shit.”

The Belstaff was too bulky to carry along with two motorcycle helmets so Violet did the only thing she could think of, putting the damn thing on. As she pushed the sleeves up, she immediately heard Sherlock griping in her head Stop wearing my clothes…

Well stop getting yourself kidnapped, jackass she mentally argued back with him as she ran after John, carrying a motorcycle helmet in each hand, the coat tails dragging on the pavement.

She ran, down the pavement, in Sherlock Holmes’ coat. No make-up to hide her freckles. No fake glasses to hide her eyes. Her chestnut curls framing her panicked face. No hat or hood covering her head. The one time she lowered her guard in her haste to keep up with John…

… was the one time Kitty Riley was across the street. With an even better camera than the one Violet and Sherlock had destroyed. Following a tip she had received earlier, she had waited all day, hiding in plain sight. She had been about to give up when she saw Dr. Watson running towards the entrance in some sort of panic. She had expected Holmes to follow him but was pleasantly surprised when it was Holmes’ elusive bird instead. She was even wearing that great swishy coat the psychopath loved wearing.

She started snapping pictures one after another, pleased that The Other Woman actually had turned her head towards Kitty’s direction before ducking inside the hospital.

“Gotcha,” Kitty whispered.

Violet, however, oblivious to Kitty’s presence, bolted to the front desk, barely remembering to use her “Miss Smith” voice. “Did Dr. Watson pass through here?” she asked breathlessly. When the front desk attendant nodded and pointed in the general direction John had run off in, Violet left the helmets with her and took off in the same direction. She found the stairwell and started running up. No way in hell was she taking the lift, those were usually deathtraps. “John?” she risked calling out his name, her voice reverberating through the stairwell.

“Up here,” he called from several flights up.

Even taking two steps at a time, it still felt like an eternity to catch up to John. When she did though, she barked at him “Do not leave me like that.”

John didn’t apologize, just said curtly “Come on,” and started climbing the stairs again. Violet trailed after him, feeling her upper legs and calves burning with the effort from the climb. When they nearly reached the door to the roof, John drew his gun and Violet did the same. “Cover me,” he murmured in that Do Not Disobey Me voice he had, the voice that made you forget about the comfortable, ugly jumpers and the sweet bedside manner.

The soldier’s daughter was quite familiar with That Tone of Voice and she carefully pointed her gun, protecting John as he threw open the door. Hoping against hope that maybe Sherlock would be there, maybe beat up, maybe humiliated, but alive…

Nothing.

Nothing but a great view of a glorious London sunset.

Both John and Violet circled the rooftop, searching vainly. Then John lowered his gun, swearing and shaking his head.

But Violet noticed something in the dying daylight. She wordlessly tugged on John’s coat sleeve and pointed with her gun. John squinted. It was hard to see as the sun descended, but Violet and John saw there were most definitely three objects left on the ledge, something they had missed in their haste. A pair of man’s dress shoes and a shoebox.

Slowly, they advanced towards the shoes and box. “Are those…” Violet couldn’t finish the thought as she tucked the gun back into her waistband.

“Yeah,” John said tightly “His shoes. And that’s… that’s about where he stood. That’s where he…” he couldn’t finish his thought either. “Check the box,” he said roughly.

Violet had not taken her gloves off since they leave Baker Street. She approached the box as if it was a ticking time bomb, which it very well could have. She wished her dog with her right now. She bent over and breathed deeply, trying to smell obvious explosive material, gunpowder, gasoline. She gave the box and the shoes a through visual exam, pulling out her mobile to use the illuminated screen as a torch. No visible wires. No electronic visual or audio recording devices either. The lid of the box wasn’t taped down.

She looked over her shoulder at John and said “I’m going to open it,” she said, putting her mobile on the ledge. John nodded. Violet started breathing through her nose, trying to slow her racing heartbeat. Her hands, nice and steady, slowly grasped the box lid. Slowly, slowly, slowly she took the lid off, wincing, half expecting an explosion. When nothing happened, Violet peered into the box, frowning.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Don’t know,” she said, picking up her Smartphone, clicking on the actual torch feature on. Pointing the bright light into the box, she looked inside it again then uttered an inarticulate cry of shock, drawing back from the box, hand over her mouth.

“What?” John came to her side “What is it?”

“Hair,” she choked out.

“What?” John snatched her Smartphone from her and peered into the box. “Oh God…”  

Hair. Black, shiny curls.

“They’re going to send him back to us in bits and pieces,” John said bleakly as Violet turned away, one hand on her hip, the other still covering her mouth.

Her back to him, Violet said, as if trying to convince herself “It’s… it’s… just hair. It’s not an ear or fingers or…”

“But next bloody time it could be!” John exploded. Violet turned around, her face difficult to see in the twilight but her shoulders slumped and her head tilted to one side as John raged on: “Or worse. His tongue. His head. They have no intention of letting us find him whole, they are torturing us. They want us to run around like fools while they kill him slowly piece by piece.”

“John,” Violet said lowly, approaching him carefully, Sherlock’s coat fluttering in the wind. “Listen… no, listen to me. This is not a repeat of the Fall, OK? We are going to find him. We are going to find him and we are going to bring him home, in one piece.”

“How?” John demanded “There is nothing here that’s going to help us find him.”

Violet pursed her lips, her silhouette darkening as the skies faded from blue to lavender and indigo and black. She screwed her eyes shut and folded her hands together as if in prayer.  

“What are you doi-”

“Shut up,” she bit John’s head off. “I’m thinking.”

“Not the best time for a Sherlock impersonation.”

“I’m not,” she corrected him “Impersonating him. I’m profiling him. I’m trying to get inside his head, I’m trying to think like him.”

“Oh,” John said. “Well… that’s terrifying.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered.

John watched her unconsciously assume some of Sherlock’s mannerisms as she entered his “mind palace”. Her face relaxed and somehow elongated. Her steepled fingers rested just below her chin. She even stood up straighter, becoming taller.

Then she held her hands out in front of her, her wrists touching “He said he was bound, was it really necessary to hold him down,” she murmured. “No…. he would still be able to reach out and hit if his hands were tied in front of him…” She mimed striking someone with bound hands. “His hands would have been tied behind his back,” she put her hands behind her back and bent slightly over, as if she was handcuffed. “But why would they need hold him down if he was already incapacitated… oh, of course,” she breathed, oblivious to how much she sounded like him. Not the pitch of her voice, of course, but the cadence, the intonation. “Drugged him, obviously, whoever has him did their research. They know he is stronger than he looks and if he’s awake, he can outwit them, deduce his way out of his imprisonment… so why did he give in to the poetry reading…oh!” She let her arms fall back to her sides. Sherlock’s spirit evaporated. Violet reached for John “The audio tape, John,” she grabbed his sleeve. “Sherlock left us clues in the recording.”

John blinked. “Brilliant,” he said, believing her “But how?”  

“Play it again,” she urged him, letting him go after she took her mobile back from him. “Only this time, listen for any irregularities, any inflections or mispronunciations, anything that would be out of character for his normal speaking patterns that you would pick up on, but not necessarily whoever has him.”

John compiled, hearing it second time even more painful than the first go. However… “Dinosaur,” John said.

“What?” Violet said.

“It’s what he used to call Anderson, before the Fall. He used to call Anderson a dinosaur to insult him, you know, implying he only had a tiny little brain...but why would he say that now? True, he’s a bit dim, gone round the bend some say, with his obsession with finding Sherlo-”

Violet interrupted. “Do you still have Sherlock’s cell?”

“Yeah,” John dug it out of his coat pocket.

“Who was the last person to call Sherlock, not text, but actually call him? I…” she scrunched her face up. “I vaguely remember him talking to someone on the phone before I passed out.”

“Passed out?”

“Sherlock drugged me, I’ll explain later. Check who called him, time’s not on our side, John.”  

John scrolled through the Recent Calls list. “Anderson,” he said, putting the pieces together “That sodding little bastard. That was no coincidence he was at my house when those Petit Whatevers broke in and left those little gifts.”

“He made sure The Met wouldn’t find those four books upside down on the shelf in your living room,” Violet said through her teeth. “He made sure Sherlock would find the puzzle.”

“And he called Sherlock today so he would come out of Baker Street, away from you and Gladstone and the CCTV cameras and Mycroft’s security. All this time, we thought he was finally on our side but he’s been in on it. The whole bleeding time.”

“He’s not the only one,” Violet seethed, then quoted the recording: “’ are we going to sally around more’? Sally around more? Sally…?”

“Sally Donovan,” John’s murderous little smile appeared on his lips again as he shook his head.

“When Sherlock dragged me with him to Scotland Yard to introduce me to Lestrade, she was absolutely intimidated by Sherlock, not her usual “Hey Freak” crap, but really scared. She tried to shake me down, find out why Sherlock was there.” She wrapped the Belstaff around her. She could smell his soap and cologne and cigarette smoke. “We don’t know if it’s by their own choosing or if they’re being forced into it, but Sherlock is definitely telling us Anderson and Donovan are involved.”

“Great,” John started pacing, the murderous smile gone “Just fucking great, so now what?”

Violet walked away from him then, walked to the ledge, in front of Sherlock’s shoes and that ghastly box. For one wild minute, John thought she was going to climb up and stand, possibly jump… but she merely stood, staring at the city as buildings and bridges and streetlamps started to illuminate the dark night skies. “We stick to the plan, our plan,” she said finally. “Their rules are wrong.”

“Right,” John said. “OK, so it’s not just you and me against the world,” his lips now twisted up into an unhappy smile. “We call the cavalry. Lestrade, Mycroft- yes, Mycroft,” he said quietly when Violet turned around. “I know you don’t trust him, with good reason, but we need him.”

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Get Lestrade and Mycroft to work deciphering the rest of that recording. Figure out exactly what Sherlock is trying to tell us. You create a diversion, make the Rouge think you are dancing to their tune.”

“And what,” John felt disquiet stirring within him “Will you be doing?”

Violet shrugged off the Belstaff, draped it over her arm. Running a hand over the woolen coat, she said “Going somewhere that you can’t follow.”

“Why?”

“Because they expect me to run.”

“And how do I know you won’t run?”

“How do I know you won’t contact the FBI or Interpol while I’m gone?” Violet asked. When John didn’t answer, she said “If the Rouge thinks I ran then that will buy us time to figure out what possibly could have enticed Sherlock into leaving Baker Street alone in the first place.”

“Well, he solved the case, didn’t he? And he ran off like the arrogant dick he is to prove he was right,” John reminded her.

“Right…” Violet said. “The case… the bombings, the original reason how you two got involved in this mess in the first place, he found the missing link and pieced it together. I find that link, I think I can find the source of the money that Bear and I have been laundering all this time...”

“And crush the Rouge’s London cell,” John finished. Violet nodded. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Violet, yes. You are not going at this alone.”

“Sherlock would not like it if you put yourself in danger like this. These are very dirty waters I’m about to dive into. Makes the Thames look like a pristine mountain stream.”

“Goddamn both of you, I am not some child, some innocent for you to protect,” John whispered. “Jesus Christ, you and Sherlock seem to think I’m some sort of angel. I’ve killed people.”

“Even an Angel of Death is still an angel, John,” she said quietly, holding the Belstaff out to him. “Find Sherlock, I’ll find the money.” When he took the coat from her, she added “If you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, assume I’m dead.” Her tone of voice was matter-of-fact. “I’ll call on the prepaid I gave you.”

“Violet,” John said “Sherlock would not like you risking your life for him either.”

“Probably not,” Violet turned away from him “But he’d rather die than to live without you.”

John stayed on the roof, staring down, waiting for her to reach the motorcycle parked below, so far below him. In the streetlights, he watched as she hop on the motorcycle, pull the helmet over her head, rev the engine and slowly drive off.

The Solitary Cyclist… he thought. Then pondered her parting words…

…he’d rather die than to live without you…

 John hugged the Belstaff to him, gathering his courage. He looked at Sherlock’s shoes.

Don’t. Be. Dead…

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen: Twenty-Seven Freckles

31 March 2015
221B Baker Street
Wednesday
9:13 PM

John, sitting in Sherlock’s chair, tried to watch crap telly, but couldn’t concentrate. He kept looking down at the prepaid mobile Violet had given him last night before she… went wherever the hell she had gone. Mycroft had been apoplectic when John told him Violet disappeared.

“She’ll be back,” John said coolly when Mycroft’s ire had been spent.

“Oh, you best hope she will be,” Mycroft had glared at him over a bad cup of coffee at Speedy’s “In fact, you better pray she returns.”

“Funny,” John had said casually as he pushed his eggs around his plate instead of eating them. “You seem more concerned about an American fugitive then your own brother. Of course, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by that, should I?”

Mycroft had given him a taut little smile, paid the bill and left. That had been breakfast.

At tea-time, the prepaid mobile chirped. John had seized it and blew out a breath of relief:

“Across the street, on roof. Waiting for full dark – VS”

And now he sat alone, in Sherlock’s chair, fidgeting, waiting, telly turned up too loud because the flat had felt too quiet. No explosions, no violin, no long-winded diatribes about the general stupidity of the entire human race.

Violet had been right, while they had been out, the flat had been ransacked. The burglars had also done their research. While they didn’t kill Gladstone, they had shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Poor pup, drugged twice in less than two weeks, John ran his hand over the unconscious hound’s head sympathetically before pulling the offensive silver dart out of his neck. Then he hefted the limp dog up and carried him to the sofa so the Alsatian could sleep off the drugs.

Thanks to Sherlock’s clever hiding spots and Violet’s quick thinking, everything important had stayed safely concealed. John tried to tidy up, more to pass the time than anything else. Eventually, he gave up and settled for terrible reality television shows and obsessively checking both his personal mobile and the prepaid Violet gave him last night.

Gladstone eventually came out of his stupor. Now he paced and whined, sensing the tension, missing his mistress. “Come here, boy,” John beckoned the dog with his hand. Gladstone padded over to John and stuck his head under his hand. John scratched his ears and Gladstone wagged his tail. “I know, mate,” John said, longing for a stiff drink, just to take the edge off. He didn’t dare though. “This isn’t at all fun.”

The prepaid mobile chirped. John snatched it up:

“On our roof, let me in – VS”

“Come on,” John said to the dog as he clicked the remote to switch off the television set. Together, man and dog hustled up to John’s old room.

He pulled the ladder to the skylight down and climbed up, opening the window “Thank God,” he breathed, climbing down quickly so Violet would have room to come down the ladder.

She looked dreadful. John frowned, watching her gingerly close and lock the skylight window then creep down the ladder. Once fully and safely inside the brightly lit room, John saw fresh bruises across the left side of her face. Her clothes were stained and completely filthy. Not to mention the left sleeve of her hoodie and left leg of her black denim breeches were absolutely shredded. Her lower lip was puffy and there were huge purple shadows under her eyes. Her hair had fallen out of its neat military knot a lifetime ago.

She removed her handbag, also filthy, and handed it to John. She then knelt slowly down and buried her face in Gladstone’s fur. “Hey boy,” she whispered, stroking his head. “Miss me?” Gladstone licked her face and she smiled wearily, patted his head and little by little rose to her feet. “News?” she asked John as she limped towards the door.

“You OK?”

“Laid down my bike,” she said, gripping the banister as she hobbled down the stairs. “I’ve had worse spills. Did you get today’s clue?”

“Oh yeah,” John followed her as Gladstone zipped ahead of them. “Ran around London like an idiot, pretending I couldn’t figure it out until last minute. And you’re coming with me to the bathroom so I can take a look at you, don’t even bother arguing with me.”

“Fine,” Violet decided it wasn’t worth it to quarrel with the doctor “So, what the clue?”

“Graduated cylinders. I ran about the city, going from hospital to university, any place that had a lab. Mycroft worked it out first thing this morning, under the pretense that he and I had previous plans to meet for breakfast at the café. Because we’re such good friends.”

Violet snorted.

Once in the little half-bathroom connected to Sherlock’s room, Violet sank down on the toilet after putting the lid down. “What were they really?” she asked as she slowly peeled off what was left of the hoodie and her jumper, sitting there in her camisole, bra and trousers “The… graduated… things?” ?”

John studied at the raw, angry scrapes covering her arm and hands as well as the bruises on her face. “These look superficial. Now then…the graduated cylinders. Sherlock used them instead of pint glasses when he took me out for my stag party…something about being able to monitor our blood alcohol content. The clue was at the first bar Sherlock and I visited that night.”

“Clever,” Violet said under her breath.

“Here, lift your arms up for me. Take a deep breath, now… did that it hurt? Does breathing hurt at all?” he asked as he gently but firmly pressed on her rib cage, checking for checking for broken ribs and any other chest injuries. “How hard did you hit your head when you crashed?”

“It doesn’t hurt to breathe” she sat still as John finished examining her. “I didn’t hit my head in the crash. The face stuff,” she gestured to the puffy lip and bruises “Is from something else… but I don’t think I broke anything. It was a controlled crash, I’ll explain later. What was your prize for figuring the clue out?”

“No body parts, thank God,” John found a clean flannel and fussed with the tap until lukewarm water gushed out. He wetted the cloth but left the taps running.

“Good, well, that’s something,” Violet winced when John wiped the dirt and blood off her wounds. “What did they send?”

“His epinephrine syringe and another recording of Sherlock reading another ruddy poem,” he squeezed the bloody flannel out over the sink and rinsed it out again. Resuming cleaning her injuries, he said “No one could make sense of it.”

“Why not?”

“He… well, he didn’t sound like himself.” John tossed the bloody flannel into the bin when he finished cleaning her arm and face. He wasn’t born yesterday. He knew he had to burn any cloth he used to mop up Violet’s injuries as well as Violet’s clothes. He had an uneasy feeling the darkened spots on her clothes were bloodstains and the blood hadn’t all come from her wounds.

“Can I listen to it?” she asked as he dampened a fresh flannel.

“Yeah, let me go get it and some fresh clothes for you. Um… I’m guessing you’d rather do up your leg yourself?

“John, you already saw everything when you treated me for hypothermia.”

“Yes, well… uh…”

“Just trying to lighten things up, relax,” she smiled impishly. Then she looked at her shredded trouser leg. “But yeah… I’ll clean the scrape myself, but you can take a look at it, just in case I need stitches or something. I don’t think I’m bleeding anymore…”

John nodded and left her to struggle out of her breeches, which, she tossed into the now overflowing bin. Moving like a geriatric, she added the hoodie and jumper as well as her socks. Her knickers she kept on, just because she knew John was coming back. She winced as she sat back down on the toilet seat, dabbing at the scrapes running up and down her calf and thigh “God,” she muttered, touching the huge pink and red and purple bruise that stretch from hip to knee. She touched it and bit back a sob of pain. 

John came back with a sky blue t-shirt, black yoga bottoms and the tape recorder. “Jesus,” he said, putting the clothes and recorder down as he knelt to examine the bruise. “You are really lucky, you know that? I’m going to make you a cold compress for that. Oh and here,” He handed the small tape recorder to her. “I can’t listen to that twice.”

Violet waited until she felt sure John was out of earshot. When she heard the bedroom door close, she turned the volume down and hit Play.

Sherlock’s voice, normally resonant and confident, sounded drunk and exhausted. He struggled with some of the words, as if having problems pronouncing them:

“…the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them…” 

Violet’s eyes pricked.

Sherlock’s voice sounded tinny through the recorder. But even so, Violet could tell he was striving for his defiant arrogant tones when he slurred out: “I … will… not kill… myself…” Then the tape stopped with a click.

Violet’s lower lip trembled, she couldn’t help it. “Oh Sherlock,” she whispered, as tears of exhaustion and pain ran down her face. “Hang in there, we’re coming.” She wiped her eyes roughly and took a deep, shaky breath. She managed to compose herself before John came back, with the compress, a plastic Tesco sack filled with ice as well as another bag of frozen vegetables, cauliflower this time, judging by the label.

She needn’t have bothered to hide her feelings however. “Awful, isn’t it?” he said quietly as Violet shifted her weight to her right hip.

“God…” Violet shook her head as John placed a clean hand towel over the gigantic bruise on her upper left leg. She took the bag of ice from John and placed it on the towel. She swallowed another whimper. But soon, the ice numbed the fiery ache of the bruising and road burns “So… while you were pretending to be clueless, looking for this treat…I found the money.”

“You did?” Relief washed over John’s face. “Oh thank God. Thank God.”

“Do you have a secure way of contacting Mycroft?”

“Yeah,” John said, thinking it was quite telling Violet wanted him to contact Mycroft and not Lestrade. “What do you have?”

“Addresses. The first address is the location of the London Rouge cell. It’s a small sleeper cell, in Islington, posing as pharmacy, I mean, chemist, sorry,” she shook her head. “I’m tired. My American’s starting to bleed through, I guess. Anyway the second address is where the current product is right now, but it’s going to be delivered tomorrow … but I don’t who the customer is or if the product is heroin or guns or…”

“Kids,” John said quietly, holding out the frozen bag of cauliflower. “It’s kids. The Rouge have been consulting the human traffickers on how to smuggle kids in and out of London. ”

“You sure?” She took the bag and held to her cheek, flinching. Then her face relaxed as the cold brought relief to her aching jaw.

John nodded, rifling through the medicine cabinet again. “Positive. Sherlock told us. In the first recording. Molly caught it when she listened with Greg and I. After you left, I went straight to the morgue and told Molly what happened. Mary too, I told her to fetch Molly and get her to safety, but well…”

“They’re stubborn. They waited for you. They knew you’d come.”

“Yeah. Molly called Greg, acting like she wanted him to come by for a late supper. That’s how we got him to St. Bart’s without it looking like I was breaking the rules of this stupid scavenger hunt. But, sorry, I’m getting sidetracked,” John shook his head and took out a tube of antibacterial cream. “Hold out your hands,” he instructed her. When she did, he applied generous amounts to her hands, arm and face while talking “At any rate, it was Molly who noticed that Sherlock didn’t sound like himself when he was saying things like “kidding” and calling his captors “children”, he was trying to tell us that he found…”

“He found the latest shipment of kids to be sent to the black market, but he got caught,” Violet said bitterly, thinking about the PTSD nightmare he had only two nights ago. “This shit with the Earl has unearthed a lot of bad feelings he hasn’t dealt with in years…”

“He broke his own rule,” John said. “He let his heart rule his head. He saw the kids and…”

“Panicked?” Violet crinkled her nose in doubt.

“Dunno ‘bout that, maybe,” John reached for cotton wool. Binding up her scraped arm, he said “But I did watch the videos. From his therapy sessions. He knew, firsthand, the fate of those children, where they were going and to what kind of people.”

“He must have hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. That’s all they needed,” Violet said.

“No,” John said “Sherlock doesn’t hesitate.”

“Then they threatened one of the kids,” Violet bit her lip. “They threatened one of the kids and he probably tried to act like he didn’t care…”

“But couldn’t do it,” John finished. “Because he knew whatever or however they threatened the kid, it was not a bluff. So he gave in, thinking he could outsmart them and maybe he did, because, thanks to his clues, we found it, the lot of us, the pattern. We all connected all the dots,” he couldn’t keep the small note of pride out of his voice.

“How?”

“You and Sherlock had argued incessantly about the timeframe. You said when the drop-offs happened had nothing to do with anything, it was all deliberately random, kept deliberately random to throw the authorities off the scent.”

“Oh God,” Violet groaned. “Don’t tell me that I’m going to have to eat crow and tell the Great Detective he was right when we get him back?”

John couldn’t suppress a grin “Like he’d even allow that to slide. Remember The Sign of Four? Sherlock said their execution methods gave them away, connected them to all the crimes they consulted on. Well, Mary wondered out loud, brainstorming really, if there had been a bombing or a fire somewhere, anywhere within a four hour radius of London four days prior to your office receiving money to be laundered.”

Violet blinked. “Holy shit!” she cried. “Are you kidding me?” while thinking How much did you tell the Good Lady Wife, John?

“There’s more.”

“What? How?”

“We widened the search, well, Lestrade, Mycroft and the girls, really. They did all the heavy lifting while I ran around London looking like a prat, searching for test-tubes. Anyway, Mary then suggested we widen our search to check if there had been any kidnappings four days prior to the bombings and fires since we knew the Rouge was currently consulting human traffickers.”

Violet’s mouth dropped open. There’s more to Mary than I realized… she mused. Is that good or bad… later, worry about Mary later… stick to the current problem at hand…

“I know,” John said, believing she was speechless, not realizing she was thinking. “And, those kidnappings were all reported by drug addicts, prostitutes, derelicts, people who would not be taken seriously as parents because of their lifestyle and where they lived… near those properties, those run-down abandoned properties, condemned commercial buildings that are now ruins because they have been bombed or burned down…”

“But before they were destroyed,” Violet found her voice “Homeless people found shelter and dealers sold their drugs in those condemned buildings.”

“Or they were facilities dedicated to caring for the poor, shelters, rehabs and surgeries, in very poor parts of the city, where maybe a child, a child of an addict or already in the system could be snatched and no one would be the wiser? Then have the site blown up or burned up, just to be sure no one would be the wiser?”

“John… that first bombing… the one way back on March 11^th, the one made to look like a terrorist attack… how many kids were unaccounted for?”

“Seven,” John said. “All under the age of eleven, all of them children of recent immigrants. Possibly not even legal immigrants.”

“So they can barely speak English, if at all,” Violet said “Perfect, just perfect.”

“Parents are all either in prison, rehab or facing deportation, so all seven kids were either in the foster care system or homeless or God knows what worse hell. All assumed dead because of the blast.”

“Jesus Christ,” Violet closed her eyes “So if you two hadn’t showing up at my office on March 13^th, I probably would have received a deposit that needed to be cleaned on March 15th. Sherlock figured that all out just from my spreadsheet and the locations of the last bombing that the Rouge was consulting human traffickers.”

He nodded but added “Well, and from all the research you compiled over the years. But yes, he connected the dots with the information from your records of the dirty money cleaned.”

“No wonder the Rouge hates him.” Violet held still while John bandaged her hands. “How did you all figure that out so quickly though?”

John hesitated. “Lestrade suggested we take all our evidence and research to Mycroft. Which, of course, was really your research…. Um… so, yeah.”

“All my work…” she said flatly “is with MI-6 now?”

“Not everything,” John said quickly. “I made sure I only gave the bits that would help with this particular case… I… wouldn’t do anything to get you deported.”

Despite the pain, she gave him a weary half-smile “Deported.” She laughed silently. “It was inevitable, I suppose. That’s why Mycroft put me into Sherlock’s custody. He knew, eventually, he’d get what he wanted from me, one way or another. How did you get all the information to Mycroft without the bad guys noticing?”   

John mumbled incoherently.

“What?”

“Molly,” John said again after clearing his throat.

“Molly?” Violet squawked. “Sherlock is going to be pissed.”  

“She volunteered,” John said grimly after a beat. “Greg was not pleased either but Mycroft offered to keep her at an MI-6 safe-house until we get Sherlock back.”

“Did Mary go with her?” Violet asked.

“Yeah,” John knelt down to apply antibiotic cream on the scrapes on her legs. “Mary was the one who found the second clue from the Rouge. It was delivered to our doorstep. So she called, told me what the clue was. I alerted Mycroft and we had our delightful breakfast date. Meanwhile, Molly and Mary just happened to have lunch plans today.”

“What a coincidence,” Violet said. “Let me guess, a government car was waiting for them behind the alley of whatever restaurant Mycroft told them to go to and one of Mycroft cronies helped the girls sneak out through the back door?”

“With your research and Sherlock’s deductions it took the MI-6 computers less than an hour to find the pattern.”

“Hooray for technology,” Violet said as John put plaster on her leg scrapes. “It took Sherlock probably a minute once he had all the right pieces and eliminated all the red herrings. What about Anderson? Where is he?”

“At home, probably shitting himself. Both Mycroft’s people and The Met have surveillance on him. Greg and I staged a big to-do near Anderson’s desk this morning, after I met with Mycroft. I acted as if I was in a panic and asked Greg if Molly had heard from you because Sherlock finally made a pig’s ear of the relationship and the two of you had an enormous row. You took off and no one has seen either one of you for days.”

“So Anderson thinks I’m in the wind,” Violet nodded, winced, then pressed the bag of frozen vegetables back against her face. “Good. He probably told the Rouge that, so they’re wasting time looking for me. Where’s Donovan?”

“Later, when Greg and I could talk privately, I found out she had supposedly called in ill for the past three days.”

“She used to have an affair with Anderson right?” When John nodded again, Violet said “And there’s the leverage. Anderson’s pretty much the Rouge’s bitch right now if they have her.”

“Greg sent Sergeant MacDonald to Donovan’s flat… she said there were signs of a break-in.” John stood up, scooted past Violet and washed his hands at the sink. “So, that was my day. And how was yours?” he eyed her up and down.

“Productive,” she said. “Let me get dressed and let’s get this call to Mycroft over with.” 

John gave her privacy and had the slim, state-of-the-art laptop booted up, ready to go when Violet tottered out into the lounge. “Ready?” he asked her over his shoulder as he pulled up the secure video conference window on the computer. The cursor hovered over an icon of an “M”.

Violet hobbled around, leaning slightly over John, peering at the computer screen. “Do it.”  

John clicked on the icon, then “Full Screen” and soon, Mycroft’s epicene face filled the screen. “Ah,” he said placidly, his beady eyes fixed on Violet. “Agent Hunter, pleasure seeing you again, although I don’t think we had a proper conversation at that ghastly convention all those years ago.” When his greeting met a stony silence, he lifted his eyebrows and sighed dramatically “And now I see why my brother is so enthralled by you.”

“Yeah,” Violet steadied herself on the back of John’s chair. “We hate the same things.”

“Charming,” Mycroft said contemptuously.

“Violet,” John jumped in, playing peacekeeper, as usual. “Found the addresses of the London cell and where the bad guys are keeping the kidnapped kids.”

“By the way,” Violet said. “Sorry about the pile-up on the A1 but next time, tell your people not to be so conspicuous when they’re tailing me. Or at the very least, don’t send rookies.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you’re full of shit,” Violet scowled at the computer screen. “You were so paranoid about me actually running, you had a couple of your boys track me down, which got the attention of the Rouge. I had to create a little diversion to get everyone off my back.”    

“Is that when you crashed your motorcycle?” John asked, horrified.

“I told you, it was a controlled crash.”

“I should send you the bill for cleaning up that controlled crash,” Mycroft butted in.

“Not a problem,” Violet sniped back. “There’s over fifty million pounds sitting untouched in Jack Woodley’s offshore account. Want me to write a check or will a money order be OK? Have fun explaining where the influx of cash came from, by the way.”

“Uh, OK big picture, everyone, please?” John interrupted. “As I was saying, Violet has the location of the London sleeper cell and the location of the kids.”

“I’m ready,” Mycroft said briskly. Violet rattled off the addresses from memory.

“So,” John said, feeling his shoulders lightening. This nightmare was nearly at an end. “There you go. Sherlock is being held with the kids. Do you want me to meet you somewhere or is Anthea on her way? Sherlock will be in a bad way, he’ll need my help.”

“Oh John,” Violet said coldly. “Why would Mycroft save his brother now when he can catch terrorists in the act of selling children in the morning? Especially if there is the slightest chance that the reanimated corpse of Jim Moriarty makes an appearance?”

“What? No, he wouldn’t…” bewildered, John looked up at Violet, then at the computer screen. “Mycroft, no, you can’t… not again, you can’t do this to your own brother again.”

“Of course he can and will, over and over until Sherlock ends up dead for real,” Violet’s voice stayed frozen. “It’s all for the greater good, isn’t it Mr. Holmes? All for Crown and Country… and people think Americans are the violent ones.” 

“Mycroft!” John shouted at the screen. “They are drugging him… they are torturing your brother…there are kids, little children in mortal danger right now. What are you waiting for?”

“John,” Violet said through clenched teeth. “He doesn’t care, do you Mycroft? Caring doesn’t fit in with your profile at all… you consider it a liability.”

A small voice echoed in John’s memory… I just wanted him to stop hurting me…

“All Sherlock ever wanted from you,” John’s voice was just as arctic as Violet’s “was for you to stop people from hurting him. To protect him.”

“All I’ve done my entire life was try to protect him,” Mycroft’s voice stayed even. “Why do you think I encouraged his friendship with you? Or sent her to live with him? Besides, John, be sensible. Look at the evidence, all the buildings that have been blown up in the past, if this follows previous patterns, the building containing the children and Sherlock will be full of explosives. If I send a team now to retrieve Sherlock and those children, the Rouge will detonate. My sources tell me the Rouge is under the impression they are pulling your puppet strings, John. And your little one-act-play with Lestrade this morning seems to have worked, they believe Agent Hunter fled to save her own skin. Tomorrow, you’ll get another clue. Tomorrow, you and Agent Hunter lead them on another wild goose chase. That’s when MI-6 will strike. They’ll move the children after you receive the clue, thinking you’re distracted. We have two strike teams, one to take out the London cell, the other to retrieve the children and to arrest the terrorists transporting them.”

“What about Sherlock?” John demanded.

Mycroft smiled “I told you, all my life I have endeavored to protect my brother. Instead of retrieving whatever party favor the Rouge intends for you to locate, you two circle back and retrieve Sherlock. They’ll leave him behind.”

“You want us, me and her, to go into a building mostly likely rigged with explosives to get Sherlock instead sending of a proper police or military squad to do the job?”

“John, my brother’s reputation is barely intact. With the Fall then killing Charles Augustus Magnussen, then that delightful little video from the recently deceased Jim Moriarty… how well do you think the public will take my sociopathic drug-addict brother being hauled out of an abandoned factory by the police when he’s high as a kite? Oh his fan club will adore him no matter what he does,” Mycroft said in a vinegary voice. “But as far as everyone else? How much goodwill do you really think the public has towards Sherlock Holmes, towards a man who got away with murder?” 

“I…” Violet chose her next words very carefully “Thought that was a rumor, that Sherlock killing Magnussen was just a rumor.”

“Yes,” Mycroft purred. “Just a rumor… just like it’s only a rumor John killed the cab driver who poisoned his passengers.” As both John and Violet sat in stunned silence, Mycroft said “So you see I am protecting my brother. Two… no,” a cruel smile appeared on his lips “Three of the best assassins are his best friends. Tell me Violet, how many people have you murdered since your feet touched English soil?”

“How many people have you killed with a signature, Mr. Holmes? Or a push of a button?” Violet asked. “Have you ever held a gun and pulled the actual trigger?”

“I don’t have to,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Get some rest, tonight. You’ll both need to be daisy-fresh in the morning.” The screen went blank.

“Who’s the third assassin?” Violet asked weakly.

“Dunno,” John lied, closing the computer.

“Why do people keep bullshitting me?” she said tiredly. “When Sherlock and I went to your townhouse to investigate the home invasion, he didn’t call Mary upstairs because he really valued her opinion about that hideous painting. He didn’t want her to be in the same room as me. He didn’t want me profiling her, did he?”

John sighed raggedly “Yes, probably. Dunno, I was too busy helping you with those books.”

“Books about obsession,” Violet sat on the chair arm, next to John. “Moriarty was obsessed with Sherlock. Pathologically obsessed. When I was working for him, he wanted personal items. He,” she looked at Sherlock’s music stand. “Wanted the violin.”

“What?”

“He offered me half a million pounds for Sherlock’s violin. I, uh, gently convinced him that was not a great idea. Especially since,” Violet pushed herself off the chair and tottered over to the music stand, standing by the table, where the violin case sat. Tracing a finger over it, she added “Especially since the Most Observant Man in the Entire Goddamn World would have noticed if I had swapped it out with a different one.” Unconsciously, her hand crept up to her neck, where the scar was. “John, what do I need to know about Mary?”

“Nothing,” John said.

“Don’t do that,” Violet shook her head. “The same rules apply to you as they do Sherlock. I don’t give a shit about your personal life unless it affects me directly. Do I need to worry about Mary?”

“No,” John said emphatically. “No. She’s on our side. Sherlock saved her.”

Violet gave John a sidelong, skeptical glance then looked back down at the violin. “Both you and Sherlock have a bad habit of adopting strays.” She flipped up the clasps of the violin case and carefully lifted the lid. Gently, she ran her fingers over the strings. “I always wanted to learn how to play this,” she said softly. “I’m not sure why my parents decided on the piano instead… a violin would have been easier to pack with all the moving from base to base we did.” She turned, facing the window, arms crossed, standing in the very same place Sherlock loved to stand, beloved violin tucked under his chin, coaxing music out of an impossible instrument. “I’m such a fucking idiot, John,” she said to the window. “Mycroft is never going to let me go. He’s trapped me as neatly as he’s trapped Sherlock, if what he’s saying about Sherlock shooting Magnussen is true.”

“It is true,” John said softly, looking down at his hand, at his wedding ring. “Magnussen was hurting Mary, threatening her, threatening our… child. It was the only way he could stop him.”

“Child? But…?”

“We lost her,” John twisted the gold band around his ring finger. “Mary went into premature labor during her seventh month and, well… yeah…”  

“I’m sorry…” Violet said, still not turning around. “I can’t have children. When I realized I would never leave England, would never be able to go back to the US, I didn’t want to take any chances with a… um, surprise. Bear found a doctor that wouldn’t ask too many questions and I had my tubes tied.” She ran her hand down her flat stomach, over where Sherlock had seen her laparoscopic scars. “Then,” she swallowed hard. “Then for the past three weeks, I had hope. I had hope that maybe, just maybe there was a chance, a tiny chance, a breath of a chance, I could go back, I could at least see what’s left of my family, I could finally meet my niece.” Her voice caught. “Well… it was never much of a chance, to be realistic, but still… you know…”

John sat up, realizing she was crying, “Violet, once we get Sherlock back, he’ll figure a way out. He always does. He’ll get you home.”

“Oh John,” she turned around, wiping her eyes like an exhausted child. “Don’t you see? Moriarty was never Sherlock’s equal and definitely not his superior. It’s Mycroft. It’s always been Mycroft that’s one foot, one step ahead of him. He’s trapped me here just as neatly and permanently as he’s trapped Sherlock. Don’t you get it?” she laughed bitterly. “I’m Sherlock’s new handler. I’m not The Other Woman, I’m John 2.0.”

“Violet, hang on now-”

“Why do you think surveillance is so high here?” she asked him. Before John could hazard a guess, she said “Because Sherlock and I are under house arrest. He’s unstable and I’m untrustworthy. We are each other’s keepers. London is our prison and Baker Street is our private cellblock. I am never going to be allowed to leave. I’m going to die in England.”

“Stop it,” John got up, walked over to her and said again soft, but firmly. “Stop that. OK, so maybe that’s Mycroft’s endgame, but so what? It’s kept you alive, out of an American federal prison or an English gaol. You saved Sherlock’s life once and so have I and together we can do it again. And you know what? I was never Sherlock’s handler. I was always his friend.” He dug in his pocket and produced a tissue. “And he’s mine. My best friend. So don’t let Mycroft get into your head. He can mind-game with the best of them and I’ll tell you something else. Sherlock’s fond of you. Not in a sending-roses-and-chocolates sort of way,” he amended hastily as Violet dabbed at her eyes. “But he likes you, he really does.”

“As long as I’m interesting, I know…”

“No,” John said. “He likes you. End of statement.” 

“Oh,” she said, looking at the soggy tissue. “He has an interesting way of showing it.”

“He probably thought he was doing you a favor by drugging you.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s such a jackass.”

“Yeah. But he’s our jack-arse.”

Unexpectedly, Violet hugged him. Taken aback, John awkwardly patted her back, but then remembered Harry hugging him like this, after their parents had came unglued when she came out of the closet. John had slipped into her bedroom, found his sister crying and told her he didn’t give a toss if she fancied boys or girls, he thought she was just fine as she was. Harry had seized him, embraced him tightly and said “Cheers Johnny… don’t ever change…”

John then remembered Violet talking about her little brother, how her face would soften when she reminisced about their childhood but would become taut when his death came up. A death she felt fully responsible for. A death she believed she caused because she missed him and made one telephone call.

Plus, it had probably been ages since she had received any sort of actual comforting physical contact from anyone. Violet Smith, after all, was not a warm and cuddly persona. And Violet Hunter looked like she had the hell beaten out of her, motorcycle accident notwithstanding.

So he gave her a proper hug back, albeit a gentle one, mindful of her bruises and scrapes. Like the kind he used to give Harry before the booze became more important than her brother, “Let’s not borrow trouble from the future, we’ve got plenty right now in front of us.”

She nodded, breaking the embrace. “John,” she said hoarsely, “I hate asking, but you’ve got to prescribe me something for tomorrow or else I’m not going to be worth a damn. I can feel my left side spasming, turning into one giant cramp. I’ve got to be able to move tomorrow.” She added when John didn’t immediately reply “This is me talking, not Sherlock. The former fed who used to shake down drug dealers in the US Southwest. I can’t afford to feel high, but I need an edge off the pain so I can run and fight if I have to. Ibuprofen’s not going to cut it.” 

“Right,” John took her arm and gently palpitated it. Feeling the muscle rigidity, he said “Yeah, you’re stiff as a board. That won’t do. I can send a script for ketoralac to the chemist electronically tonight. It’ll be ready first thing in the morning. Injection, not oral so it will work faster. Jab in the arm and a jab in the leg should get you through the day tomorrow, OK?”

She nodded, drained. “Will you wake me when you get tomorrow’s clue?”

“Yeah, ‘course I will. Go kip out on Sherlock’s bed. I’ll be in my old room.”

She patted him on the shoulder then shuffled towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “No matter what John, we have to get him tomorrow,” she said as Gladstone followed her.

“I know,” he said. “Tomorrow is Day Three.”

They both knew there wouldn’t be a clue on Day Four. There’d be a body instead.

**

Violet had actually woken up before John, performing gentle yoga poses as he came down the stairs. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Do you still think you need medication?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said, standing up and rubbing her left quads. “I can move, but it hurts like a bitch. Good morning, by the way. There’s coffee,” she flexed her left hand, frowning “No clue yet. I’ve been checking.”

“Right,” John checked his watch. He had showered last night and was already dressed for the day except for…  Bugger shaving he thought, running his hand over his chin and cheeks. “Chemist opens in about fifteen minutes. I’ll head over. You OK here on your own?” Violet gave him a disparaging “Oh Please” look and John said “Right, right, I know, I know, big bad federal agent and her killer police dog.” He reached for his black leather jacket, pulled it on.

“Actually, take Gladstone with you,” she said. “You still have the dog whistle?”

“Yup,” John patted his jeans pocket. “And I remember the commands, so… hey, Gladstone?” John reached for the leash. “Want to go for a walk?”

Gladstone bounded off the sofa and trotted over to John, tail wagging. John clipped the leash to his collar. “Am I,” he said, hand on the door knob, “The only one who noticed today is April Fool’s Day?”

“The irony has not escaped me,” Violet said, trying to get back into the Downward Facing Dog position, wincing, lifting her left arm and trying to shake it out. “Dammit,” she muttered.

“Right, be back soon,” John said, slightly tugging the leash. Gladstone needed no additional encouragement; he happily pranced ahead of John, forcing John to quickly close the door behind him.  

In the forty-five minutes it took for John to let Gladstone relieve himself, then walk to the nearby chemist, pick up the prescription and walk back to Baker Street, the clue had arrived.

Violet had changed out of the t-shirt and yoga bottoms into jeans, a form-fitting black blouse and boots, her hair again tied back into a merciless bun. She had done her face as well, her freckles camouflaged under layers of concealer and powder. She let John and Gladstone back into the flat, gun in hand, of course. “An envelope was slid underneath the door about ten minutes after you left,” she said, putting the safety on her gun. “I decided it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to pursue. Plus, since Mrs. Hudson refuses to leave Baker Street…” she gritted her teeth.

“Yeah, good call, let’s not draw additional attention,” John said. “Where’s the envelope?”

Violet pointed at the coffee table as Gladstone wandered off towards the direction of his food and water bowls in the messy kitchen. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

John took a deep breath. “OK. Let’s finish this.”

Together they sat down on the sofa. Violet had laid out a letter opener and a pair of latex gloves she had found in the kitchen, probably leftovers from one of Sherlock’s never ending experiments.

“Jesus, his hands are huge,” Violet said, pulling on the gloves. Clumsily she grabbed the letter opener. “Um… I think you better do this actually,” she said, flexing her left hand again.

“What’s the matter?” Dr. Watson immediately went on high alert.

“It’s just sore,” she said, handing him the letter opener then peeled the gloves off carefully so John could re-use them.

John drew the gloves on and with surgical precision, slit the envelope open, half-expecting bread crumbs to fall out. Instead, he pulled out a post card.

“The Vermeer…” he murmured.

“The what?”

“The first game Sherlock actively and knowingly played with Moriarty,” John said. “He had Sherlock deduce whether or not a painting was a fake. This painting,” John held up the picture to Violet. “A child’s life had been on the line. Sherlock had literally seconds to determine why the painting was a fake. He solved it at the last possible second.”

“So,” Violet said. “The ‘prize’ is probably at the museum where the fake was at.”

“No, it can’t be that easy,” John said, standing up. Holding his hand out to Violet he said, “But that doesn’t matter since we have no intention of picking up their little consolation prize. So let me give you that injection then we’ll text Mycroft to let him know the game is on.”

“Tally ho,” she said in an exaggerated British accent but she held out her hand and let John help her stand up. But once on her feet, she said in her real voice “Am I the only one who is noticing how all these clues lead back to Jim Moriarty?”

“Nope,” John said. “And that makes me distinctly unhappy.”

“Give me the shot,” Violet said “And let’s finish what Sherlock started. Let’s exorcise this demon, once and for all.”

After John gave her injection of ketorolac, he sent the text to Mycroft on the prepaid Violet had given him. They loaded their weapons and made sure their mobiles were fully charged while they waited for Mycroft to provide them with the game plan. They both had just enough time to gulp down a cup of coffee and devour a protein bar that reminded John of those horrible instant meals the Army had provided while he was out in the field. After their pitiful meal, Mycroft contacted them, curtly explained their part in the game then abruptly terminated communication just as suddenly as he had contacted them.

“Ready?” John said, reaching for his coat.

“Locked and loaded,” she said, putting her gun down the back of her trousers.

As she flexed her fingers, he asked “How are you feeling? Any nausea?” as he put his black jacket back on.

“Nope,” she said, pulling on a black cardigan John recognized as one of Mary’s old jumpers. “Pain’s going away too, which is even better,” she belted the cardigan around her waist. She was running out of coats. Fortunately, it was promising to be a fair day today. She wound a dark forest green scarf around her neck and pulled on a black cap on her head, pulling the brim down low over her eyes. Snatching up a pair of sunglasses, she looked at John and asked “When is the cab going to be here?”

“Any minute,” he pushed up his shirt sleeve, checking his watch.

“OK,” she said, smoothing down the cardigan, making sure the gun she carried was unnoticeable. “See you,” she said as she tucked her prepaid mobile into the back jean pocket. Then she pivoted and headed up to John’s room, where she would slip out, hopefully unnoticed through the skylight.

“See you,” John said before calling “Gladstone, come here, boy, who’s a good boy?” He knelt down and clipped the leash to the dog’s collar again. He straightened up, took a deep breath and said “Right,” to the empty silence. Then he grabbed his old, hated crutch and slipped out of the flat, treading cat-like down the stairs, hoping to avoid Mrs. Hudson.

John, Lestrade and even Mycroft tried to convince the landlady to leave, but she resolutely shook her head, holding her ground as if England really would fall if she left. Separately, she had told all three of them off. “This is my home and my livelihood and I’m tired of being run out of here whenever something dreadful happens!” the ditzy older lady had snapped at John, showing nerve John didn’t realize she had. “And if Sherlock’s in trouble… well,” then she had sniffled; the Mrs. Hudson John knew returning. “Well, somebody will need to make tea when you bring him home, won’t they now?” Then she had fled to her own flat, slamming the door.

John had felt terrible, but what else could they have done? At least Molly, in her condition, had seen the wisdom of going into a safe house and thank God Mary had agreed to go with her…

… assuming Mary really was on their side, of course.

Stop that, you forgave her he reminded himself as he stood on the curb, leaning heavily on the crutch, waiting for the cab he had called ahead for. Why am I thinking such things like that about her now? he thought when the stately black vehicle arrived.

“No dogs,” the cabbie said, eyeing Gladstone.

“Have a heart,” John made himself sound piteous. “He’s my service dog. Had a bad war.”

“Ah,” the cabbie noticed John’s crutch. “Yeah, ‘K, sorry, didn’t realize. Most service dogs have those vest thingamabobbies?”

“Stone doesn’t like ‘em, do you?” he said, clumsily opening the back door and letting the dog bound inside. “Right, then,” John gave the cabbie the address to the first museum.

Mycroft’s plan was as brilliant as it was simple and dangerous. Knowing he would be followed, John would appear to be foundering around London, first going to the correct museum where the fake Vermeer had been at, knowing damn well there would be nothing there, but acting surprised he was wrong. Then he would desperately flounder around London, going from museum to museum (there were only over two hundred museums in London, after all…) until getting the All Clear from Mycroft that the Rouge’s London cell had been shut down and the All Clear from Lestrade the abducted children had been retrieved… and hopefully Sherlock too….

But knowing the odds were definitely against that, once the All Clear message was received, John would team back up with Violet (who would be discreetly following him on the new motorcycle Mycroft’s people left for her in the alley behind Baker Street. Together, they would circle back to where the abducted children had been originally held, where Sherlock hopefully still was held captive.

Assuming the Rouge didn’t blow the building before John and Violet could get to Sherlock, of course… “They won’t,” Violet had tried reassuring John “Remember? Sign of Four. They’ll wait four days before blowing, that’s the pattern…” but she hadn’t sounded very confident either.

John visited four museums before he got a text from Mycroft on the prepaid:

“1 down. 2 to go. Standby for L.”

At least, he assumed it was Mycroft, since he didn’t put his usual initials after the message, but John supposed Mycroft was being cautious in case the pre-paid was intercepted.

Still, it was easy to maintain the look of panic on his face as he hailed a cab to go to the fifth museum. But at least there some good news: ‘1 down’ meant the London cell had been raided. The Rouge Dirigé Liguecase just lost their English foothold… and opened the door wide for MI-6 and Interpol to seize the Belfast and Dublin cells and Belfast was their unofficial headquarters.

Berlin’s cell was in its death throes. Both Sherlock and Violet had confirmed that. That only left three operational cells in Moscow, Washington DC and New York City.

Fuck you Moriarty John thought viciously as the cab battled the traffic to get him to his next destination. We’re winning…

Ever vigilant, John kept his eyes open for suspicious looking people and for Violet. Both of them remembered vividly the nasty old man’s warning: If you or Agent Hunter or both are caught by one of our people, game over…

And they were already risking so much involving the Met and MI-6. Come on Lestrade, he thought urgently. Find those kids… God, let Sherlock be with them… please…

His mobile vibrated as he “hobbled” towards the massive entrance of The Royal Academy of Arts as Gladstone trotted next to him. Lestrade, calling, not texting: that can’t be good, John thought. Pretending to admire the architecture, John put his mobile to his ear and said “Yeah?” as Gladstone obediently sat next to John.

“Not much time, so listen,” Lestrade’s voice had an unusual edge to it. “Got the package and the delivery men, but one of the packages had something of ours…”

“What?” John asked.

“Blue scarf,” Lestrade said, dropping his voice lower “Wrapped ‘round his neck.”

“Shit, yeah. OK.” John squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a moment. They had been right, he and Violet. Sherlock had found the children first. John saw it clearly. Sherlock, perhaps to calm the child, to show he was a friend or perhaps the child had just been cold, for whatever reason, Sherlock had put his scarf around the boy’s neck. But then… what had happened? What had caught Sherlock off guard?

“Also, Dino slipped his leash,” Lestrade’s voice was a whisper now.

“What, how?” Dino, short for Dinosaur, was, of course, Anderson’s code name. 

“Not now,” Lestrade said, “Got to move, we’re trying to keep this out of the press as long as we can to buy you time. Watch yourself.”

“Yeah, OK,” John ended the call. Then flipped his mobile around, texting both Mycroft and Violet at the same time:

“2 down, 1 to go. Dino loose. Stand by for V.”

Immediately a text came from Violet “V on deck. Eyes open for Dino.”

John, as quickly as he could, (still pretending to be disabled so he wouldn’t have to fight cab drivers to let Gladstone in the cab), turned and headed back towards the street. “Come on, come on, come on,” he silently urged a cab to see his raised hand. When one finally pulled over and after another brief bout of pleading to let the dog come along since he was a veteran and the dog was his service animal, John and Gladstone clambered into the vehicle. John gave the cabbie the address to a very obscure gallery, a location at which Violet was to meet him when both the London cell was taken and the children were found.

John knew he was no great shakes at acting, at least not to the levels of Sherlock or Violet (… or Mary… an insidious voice whispered inside his head, but again, he brushed that thought away). He knew his feelings of dread were plain on his face, which was OK. If somehow the Rouge managed to actually see his face, they would see a face of a panicked man… they just didn’t know exactly what he was panicking about…

“Alright there back there friend?” the cabbie asked, a black man with a distinct Caribbean accent. Sherlock would have deduced which corner of which island he had come from…

“Yeah, sorry,” John said automatically, texting Violet to let him know he was approximately two blocks away from the gallery.

A block away from the gallery, a woman on a motorcycle pulled out in front of the cabbie. The brakes screeched as the black cab abruptly stopped. The motorcycle circled around the cab then parked next to the driver’s side door.

“What the fuck, ya dumb bitch?” the cabbie shouted at Violet when he rolled down his window as she disembarked from the motorcycle.

Violet Hunter whipped out her gun, clicking the safety off in one swift movement “Get out.”

“Jesus Christ!” the cabbie squealed, compiling.

“Cell phone,” she held out her free hand.

“Fuck, come on, it’s the new iPhone 7, I just got it!” Violet took a step closer, taking off her sunglasses, dropping them to the street. The cabbie saw the murderous intent blazing in her greenish-gold eyes and threw the mobile. She caught it deftly and put it in her pocket, gun still trained on the cabbie. “Shit, lady, don’t kill me, I’ve got kids…”  

“Run.”

He obeyed without looking back.

Violet tucked her gun into the back of her trousers, put her fingers to her lips and gave a sharp whistle. A girl John recognized from Sherlock’s Homeless Network leapt off the dirty rug she had been sitting on. She had been watching the entire show. Now she sprang into action, snatching up her tattered handbag, leaving behind the rug and hat full of coins as she ran towards Violet. Violet tossed the girl the shiny new iPhone as well as her prepaid. The Homeless Girl pocketed both mobiles then lobbed the handbag at Violet, who caught it by the strap. The Homeless Girl then hopped on the motorcycle and sped off without a second look.

Violet tossed the grimy bag inside then slid into the driver’s side of the idling cab. Gladstone yipped happily but his mistress said sternly “Stone, stille.”

“Right,” John said nervously, a perfectly justified emotion he thought. “You sure you can manage London traffic?”

“I said I wasn’t comfortable driving a car in London, I didn’t say I couldn’t do it,” Violet said as she put the car in gear, inching forward slowly on the quiet, deserted street.

“Just stay in the correct lane.”

“Oh ha ha,” Violet said sourly “Text Mycroft.”

John pulled out the prepaid:

“999 SH Go. Non-com Go.”

Rescue Sherlock Holmes is a Go. No communication until further notice.

John flipped the mobile over, cracked the back open, pried the battery out, threw it out the window as the cab increased speed as Violet’s confidence increased. Bit by bit, he broke the mobile the tossed the pieces out the window, as if he was Hansel leaving a bread crumb trail. Their “real”, personal mobiles were safely hidden back at Baker Street.

John wished Violet would drive faster, but at the same time, after riding on the back of a motorcycle at death-defying speeds, was also glad she drove the cab a bit more conservatively than the motorcycle. Acting as navigator, John gave clear, concise directions, telling her where to turn and what exits to take well in plenty of time for her to take them.

When Violet gave Mycroft the second address last night, he knew exactly where the children and Sherlock were being held.

Soon, they were out of the metro part of the London, heading more towards the industrial section of the city. Then further out, where the industry had failed.

Violet sped up even more once she had broken free of the horrendous city traffic. John watched the landscape change as she drove away from the well known landmarks like the Eye and Big Ben, to empty warehouses and crumbling factories.

“Here,” John said, leaning over the front seat, sticking his arm through the small opening in the partition so he could point. “Turn there.” Violet complied. “Stop,” John said “Park here. It’s a bit of a walk, but I’d rather not take any risks, just in case someone decided to throw a surprise welcoming party for us after all.” 

“Plus, I’d rather not have our getaway vehicle too close to the building, just in case there is a bomb, but  we’ll know soon enough if there is one,” Violet said, turning the cab’s engine off, rather pleased with herself for how well she handled London’s traffic, driving the in “wrong lane” withstanding. She shrugged off the cumbersome cardigan, deciding to just suck it up and deal with the slight chill in the air in order to have more mobility. She removed the hat and scarf as well, tossed it on the seat and started rummaging through the grubby handbag. “Thank you Mycroft,” she pulled out two more mobiles, a little more state-of-the-art than the pre-paids she and John just destroyed. There were also two Bluetooth headsets as well.

Once she and John got out of the cab, she knelt down and removed Gladstone’s leash. John opened the boot and found a box of emergency supplies. He was glad to see a first aid kit and a blanket, which Sherlock might need and two torches. Before he could give her a torch, she gave him the mobile and the headset. “Feel like a complete wanker with one of these in my ear,” John admitted as he tucked the actual mobile in his pocket. “Like I’m some sort of posh stockbroker trying to impress everyone at the pub.” 

“Yeah, usually these things are the international badge for douche-bag, aren’t they?” she said, adjusting the uncomfortable earpiece. John handed Violet a torch, then they pulled their guns out and looked at the old abandoned candy factory, torn plastic hanging from the broken window panes, fluttering like the robes of beckoning ghosts. “Oh boy…” Violet breathed.

“Right,” John said, infusing his voice with more confidence than he felt. “Come on then, Violet.”

Cautiously, the trio made their way towards the building, Gladstone a few paces ahead, ears pointed up, tail not wagging one little bit.

Man, woman and dog approached the derelict building from the side rather the original front entrance, pushing through the weeds and overgrowth. Once they reached the fence, a rusted forgotten chain link fence, John found a part of the chain link that was not properly adhered to the pole. He tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers and the torch under his armpit then pulled the chain link back. Gladstone scuttled through first, then Violet. John followed, letting the chain link fall back into place behind him.

Once actually on the property, near a side entrance to the building, Violet said lowly “Stone, suchlauf.”  The Alsatian got down to business, head down, snuffling, loping ahead of them.

“We should have known,” John breathed as they got closer and closer, eyes up at the window, instinctively looking for sniper rifles. “This is where Moriarty took the Ambassador’s kids when he started his campaign against Sherlock, to smear his name.” He had his gun out again.

“Twenty-twenty hindsight doesn’t do anyone any good,” Violet said, looking at the dilapidated building with zero enthusiasm. As they got closer, gravel crunching under their boots, she added “I hate suggesting this because this is how bad horror movies begin but once inside…”

“Split up?” John finished.

She nodded “We’ve got the headsets. We’ll be able to stay in contact.”

John did not like the idea of splitting up one bit but time was not necessarily their friend at the moment. They needed to cover as much ground as possible. “Yeah, OK.”

“Take Gladstone; don’t even bother arguing with me. If he starts barking like crazy, run like hell.”

“Right,” John said, remembering how he found the bomb underneath Violet’s kitchen sink and how he savaged the Thug in Violet’s flat and then the Large Man in the alley. “Think Anderson might be here?” he looked around, as if he expected the forensic specialist to just pop up

Violet had crouched down, examining the gravel and some of the larger stones, the torch at her feet. “John, look, these are about the same rocks they put in the pockets of the Belstaff to weight it down when they tossed it from St. Bart’s roof,” Violet said, throwing a rock about the size of a golf ball up at him. As John caught it with his free hand, she said “And I don’t know if Anderson would come here or not. Part of me thinks he might have bailed, but…” she faltered.

“But what?”

“But part of me thinks he might come here looking for Sally Donovan.”

“You think she’s here too?”

“Haven’t ruled it out,” Violet stood up, scooping up the torch as she did so. She took a deep, slow breath. So did John. “OK,” she said.

“OK,” John said and he led Violet and the police dog to the side door. He tugged on the handle. Unlocked. It screeched on the hinges. John and Violet had one of those silent conversations brothers and sisters have between each other: Too easy. They knew we were coming.

Violet pursed her lips so tightly together that they were white. Her eyes flicked down to her dog, her beloved companion, her trusted friend. “Stone,” she said in a flat, dispassionate voice “Innen.”

The dog entered the building without hesitation, as ordered.

Violet covered John’s back as he raised his torch and the gun. When no shots were fired nor warning shouts yelled out, John and Violet inched their way inside the darkened factory, the beams of their torches cutting through the gloom and falling dust.

“Right,” John said in a hushed voice, looking right and left, studiously checking his blind spots. The huge conveyor belts and other huge pieces of equipment hovered over them like gigantic tin men from a nightmarish version of The Wizard of Oz. “You go left, I go right. We meet in the middle. Twenty minutes, if we don’t find him,” he hesitated, hating himself for his next words: ”We get out and meet back at the cab.”  

Violet nodded. “Give Stone the search command so he goes with you,” she whispered.

“Suchlauf,” John mangled the German, but Gladstone understood it well enough.

Carefully, they slipped away from each other. Violet felt her heart beginning to race once she started maneuvering through the abandoned factory alone. The film of dirt and spider webs on the remaining windows blocked out most of the sunlight. The building was deafeningly still. She breathed through her nose, pranayama, the calming breathing technique she had learned after years of yoga. The pranayama also kept her mind off her injuries. The injection John gave her earlier only made the pain easier to tolerate.

Her wrists were perfectly crossed over each other, textbook procedure for holding a gun and a torch (Flashlight her American mind mildly rebelled) as she continued to slowly walk through the gloomy factory. Old foil candy wrappers crinkled under her feet. She could hear the chattering of mice skittering here and there (Oh God please let that be mice…)

Sherlock she thought where are you?  She shined her light on a door that looked like a possible entrance to where the candies and sweets might have been stored once packaged. In this grey, dusty hellhole, she seriously considered selling her soul to have Sherlock’s extraordinary perception and observational skills, just for fifteen minutes… ten even…

Yes, she could get inside Sherlock’s head, could determine what motivated him and could see how his past affected his future. She could even deduce the secrets of his dyslexic heart. That didn’t mean she could see like he could. She merely had a very good memory, above-average IQ and 20/20 vision, after all. She strained her ears, hoping to hear something, and yet dreading it at the same time.

John’s voice crackled in her ear “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” she said, shining her light in every nook and cranny, around every machine while inching towards the storage room door, trying to not jump every time she heard the scuttling of mice running and squeaking “Anything?”

“Stairs,” he whispered. “Looks like to some sort of office space on the second level. You?”

“Old storage room,” she breathed, getting closer.

“OK,” John said. Neither one of them told the other to be careful.

Once at the door, Violet looked to the right, then to the left, then behind her. Then she kicked the door open. The door popped open and Violet stuck her arms through the door, pointing her gun and torch, checking all the blind spots. She almost said “Clear!” per procedure.

But the room wasn’t clear, nor was it an old storage room. It appeared to be an old lounge, a break room, maybe a small lunch room at one time. Most of the window panes were missing, so this room was better lit than the rest of the factory and the air was not quite as stale and musty. The room was empty… except for a man, propped up in the corner. A barefoot man with short, badly cut hair, wearing a filthy white dress shirt and equally filthy black trousers.

“Oh my God,” Violet felt her shoulders go limp. “John! John, I found him! Hurry!”

She stuffed the gun down the back of her trousers and ran towards the unconscious detective while thinking Don’tbedeaddon’tbedeaddon’tbedead… all the while giving John directions to where the break room was.

She knelt on the dirty floor in front of the detective. His head hung limply down, looking strange without the mop of pitch black curls. “Sherlock, Sherlock!” she put the torch down and cupped his face, lifting his head up, the three days of stubble rough on her hands. His mercurial eyes stayed shut. “Oh come on, please,” automatically her hand ran down his neck, searching for a pulse. Relieved, she found it, but then frowned. She was no medical doctor, but his pulse didn’t feel… right to her. Erratic. She peeled back his shirt collar and groaned when she saw the bruising around the puncture wounds, the tiny holes starting to scab over.

“Sherlock, wake up, we have to go now,” she shook him, harder than she intended. 

His eyes snapped open “Oh, hi.”

“Yes, you are,” Violet said, feeling something loosening in her chest at the sound of his voice. “Very very high. We need to go, right now. Can you get up? Can you do that for me?” she pulled on his arms, as if to lift him up.  “John’s waiting for us.”

Sherlock seemed more intent on studying Violet’s face than listening to what she was saying. “You have very pretty eyes.”

“What?”

“You have exactly twenty-seven freckles on your face,” he slurred, tracing his finger down her cheek. “I counted one night when I was bored.”

“Ah…”

Before Violet could get more than that out, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her. Like a young boy kissing his first girl.

Violet pushed him away, toppled backwards, landing on her backside. An involuntary cry of pain slipped out. Tears stung her eyes. Rubbing her bruised hip and thigh, she shakily rose to her feet. Still rubbing her thigh, she bellowed at the top of her lungs “JOHN!”

He had been closer than she thought. “What, what is it?” John said, entering as Gladstone darted ahead of him. “Oh God,” he said, looking down at Sherlock. “What did they given him?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said, still in shock and pain “But he is higher than Jesus right now.”

John knelt in front of Sherlock. “Hey, Sherlock, it’s me, think you can walk a bit?”

“John,” a slow smile crossed Sherlock’s face. “I knew you would come…”

“’Course I would,” John said, trying to help Sherlock stand up. The detective’s legs seemed to have been made of rubber. “Let’s get out of her-”

The lights in the building turned on.

Violet pulled out her gun and so did John, letting Sherlock slump back to the ground. Gladstone started growling, his hackles rising, baring his teeth. “Sherlock,” John said, striving for calm. “We need to go. Right now. Can you try to get up? For me?”

“Touching,” a snide voice came from outside the room.

Violet pivoted towards the door. Gladstone’s growls got louder. John crouched down again, shielding Sherlock. “Anderson?” John called out. “Is that you?”

“Tell Agent Hunter to have her dog stand down,” Anderson called from outside the room.

“Fuck,” Violet said through her teeth when Anderson said her real surname while John demanded loudly “Why would I do that?”

Anderson came into the room but he wasn’t alone.

A little girl, sobbing her eyes out, walked a head of him. Anderson had a hand on her shoulder.

And a gun to her head. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen: Mon Ami

John lowered his gun. “Philip, what are you doing?”

Violet pointed her gun at Anderson’s head. “Let the kid go.”

Gladstone’s entire body tensed, waiting for Violet’s command. Sherlock remained as useless as a rag doll, trying to stand but his legs folding underneath him as John told him to stay still.

“Muzzle your dog,” Anderson pressed the gun barrel against the girl’s temple. She couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. She trembled and wept and garbled something that sounded like oddly-accented French to John.

“Il sera bien ma petit,” Violet said, confirming John’s suspicions. “Je le promets.”

“This isn’t you, Philip,” John tried again. “She’s a little girl. You can’t and won’t hurt a little girl.”

Anderson looked at Sherlock. Then pointed the gun at John “Sherlock, deduce me, will you? Will I shoot John Watson?”

Sherlock shook his head wildly back and forth, as if trying to shake free from the drug-induced haze as Anderson scooped the girl up, holding her close to his chest. “Don’t…” he said thickly.

“Sherlock, shut up,” John said desperately.

“See,” Anderson said triumphantly. “He knows. And so do you, profiler,” he spat at Violet. “Muzzle your dog, Hunter. If you give the command, he’ll savage both of me and the girl, not just me, and you know it.”

“Stone,” Violet said impassively “Aus.” Gladstone gave a whine. In a harsher voice, she repeated “Aus, aus!” Gladstone lowered his head and slunk out the room. Anderson visibly recoiled as the dog loped by, but he still held the girl and still kept the gun trained at John’s head. Once the police dog left the room, Anderson picked up the girl around her waist while still pointing the gun at John. Once he reached the open door, he kicked it shut with his foot. He put the girl down, but put his hand back on her thin shoulder, pushing her forward.

“What,” John glared at Anderson “are you playing at Philip? All the time you spent looking for Sherlock, trying to prove he was still alive. I thought you were on our side?” Sherlock, meanwhile, tried to get up again, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. “Stop it,” John hissed at him.

“I was on your side. I was on Sherlock Holmes’ side. I believed in Sherlock Holmes,” Anderson yelled, sounding more disgusted than threatening. “I don’t believe in a junkie who shields a terrorist. Do you know what she did, John? Hm? She laundered money from Afghanistan warlords, money they got from selling heroin to the London drug dealers. Then those same warlords use that nice clean untraceable money to fund their jihads against our soldiers. Men like you, John. Men dying in a war, started by your bloody country,” he shouted at Violet.

“Sorry, we took it a little personally when they killed 3000 Americans in one day,” Violet said in her usual matter-of-fact voice.

“See?” Anderson brayed with derisive laughter. “She jokes about it. She doesn’t care. She turned her back on America just as readily as Sherlock turned his back on you. Oh, yes, maybe the first injection was forced upon him, but he’s been happily shooting himself up ever since. Take a look, doctor. Push up his shirt sleeve.”

John really did not wish to turn his back on Anderson. Refusing to move, staying crouched in front of the incapacitated detective, John asked “Violet, check his arm.” Hating himself, he pointed his gun back up at Anderson. The little girl’s keening increased.

Violet said something to the child as she walked backwards towards John and Sherlock. The little girl quieted down just a bit, but continued to cry, breaking John’s heart.

Violet crouched down next to Sherlock’s left side. “Show me,” Violet asked him, still pointing her gun at Anderson.

Clumsily, painfully slow, Sherlock fumbled with his dirty shirt sleeve. Finally, when he had managed to push the sleeve up over his elbow, he held his arm up for Violet to see. When John heard her inhale sharply through her nose, he knew she had seen fresh bruises and tiny little sores as well as his old track mark scars.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, letting his arm drop back down as Violet stood up again, her aim never wavering. “I couldn’t stop… I thought I could… John…please…” his voice became a high-strung, fearful whisper. Like a child caught by his father being extremely naughty. “Don’t be angry… I’m sorry…”

“No,” Anderson shook his head, his eyes slits. “He’s not. He’s not sorry. He’s never been sorry. Narcissistic prick only cares about the next rush, the next thrill. What could be more thrilling than harboring  a fugitive, what’s more fun than thumbing your nose at the most trigger happy nation in the free world?”

“Philip, please,” John pleaded as Violet stood in front of him now. He lowered his gun. “You don’t know the full story. You only know what they told you, which is a pack of lies. Talk to us. Please. Or at least… for God’s sake, Philip at least let the little girl go!”

“Why? So you can kill me the minute I let her go?” Anderson shook his head. “It’s not personal John,” he added, trying to sound reasonable, but his voice was reedy and higher than usual. “They don’t care about you. They just want her and Sherlock. You and Mary, they don’t care about and will leave the lot of you alone if you just leave now. Just walk away, John. Just bloody walk away like you should have done all those years ago.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Violet said, her voice suddenly cool and professional, almost “Violet Smith” sounding… minus the fake British accent, of course. She sounded almost clinical… no, therapeutic. She’s going to try and mind-game him John realized, mouth going dry. Jesus Christ a gun pointed at my head and she’s going to have a go at a battle of wits…

A calmer voice, a deeper voice interrupted his panicked inner monologue. This is what she does, John, a sober Sherlock chastised him. When she cannot fight back physically, she fights back mentally. She deduces all the possible actions a person could potentially take based on personality traits and idiosyncrasies she observes. She finds the pressure points and pushes. Let her work, and (this is imperative John), listen very very closely to what she says, she may be giving you clues on how you need to act and re-act once Anderson starts to crumble. He is unhinged, has been for quite some time.... He thought I survived jumping from the roof by falling into a giant inflatable mattress, for God’s sake…

“Oh, you are just like him, aren’t you?” Anderson sneered at Violet. “All high-and-bloody-mighty, you are. You’re a Sherlock Holmes with tits.”

Behind them, Sherlock giggled. “Shut up, Sherlock,” Violet and John said in unison.

In a different scenario, that would have been funny.

“I blackmailed Sherlock into sheltering me,” Violet announced after Sherlock shut up. “I used to work for Jim Moriarty. I was the one who dug up all the dirt Moriarty was able to use in order to manipulate Sherlock into jumping off of the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital.”

“You’re lying,” Anderson said, sounding unsure.

“No,” Violet took a step closer, still in front of John, shielding the doctor and the detective. “I am not lying. The things I know about that man would turn your hair white. Things Mr. Holmes has no desire the world ever finding out about. Things that The Other Mr. Holmes would kill you for knowing about.”

“Mycroft Holmes is a minor government official,” Anderson lied, remembering his last conversation with the elder Holmes brother...

Just look frightened and scuttle off…

“Mm-hm,” Violet said. “And I’m really British.”

Her voice never sounded more American.

“Listen to me, please,” Violet advanced slowly on Anderson, who held his ground. “You made a terrible mistake. An understandable one, to be sure, after all, everything you did for him. The Empty Hearse club? The online “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” campaign? Admitting your role in The Fall… and he still treats you like dog shit on the sole of his shoe…”

John focused on every single word coming out of her mouth, trying to suss out her game plan.

“… but,” she continued softly, her voice almost a caress. “I manipulated him. I forced him into protecting me until he could get me out of England safely.”

“You can’t manipulate Sherlock Holmes.”

Violet played her biggest card. “You can when you threaten his unborn child.”

What? John thought and then immediately thought Molly.  His worst fear was confirmed when Sherlock started to struggle to get up again, muttering “No. No, no, no…”

Anderson lowered his gun, just a bit. “You’re joking, who would… not that slag Janice What’s Her Name. Nobody would be…” his face slackened “The pathologist. The one who faked the death certificate … Greg’s Molly?”

“The pieces are falling into place now, aren’t they?” Violet said, keeping her voice calm and soothing. “Sherlock Holmes is not the villain of this story.” She lowered her gun. “I am.”

“What?” Anderson said while John, realizing what was happening, said “Violet, no, don’t.”

“John, it’s OK.” Violet held her arms out and slowly put the gun on the dusty floor. “Listen to me, it’s OK. Everything is going to be OK. I’m tired of running,” Violet said. “I’m turning myself in. To you. Anderson. Bring me to The Met.”

“Violet,” John yelled, awkwardly reaching behind him to press down on Sherlock’s chest. “Dammit, Sherlock, stay down.”

Violet talked over John, her eyes never leaving Anderson’s face as “My country disavowed me and my team because of suspected acts of treason. I’ve been laundering money for a consulting criminal organization called Rouge Dirigé Liguecase, or The Red Headed League for well over three years. I broke into 221B Baker Street no less than three times to uncover information on Sherlock Holmes so Jim Moriarty could coerce him into committing suicide.” She put her hands on her head. “You’d be a hero for bringing me in. Your reputation would be restored, elevated even. MI-6 might even be interested in you.” She paused. “That’s more than what the Rouge is offering you right now for both Sherlock and I. Sure, they can grant your heart’s desire but I can make you famous.”

Sherlock’s voice, his sober, detached voice, echoed in John’s head again: … you wrap your lies with truth…

Conflicting emotions crossed Anderson’s face. “Can you prove all that? What you just said?”

“Talk to John,” Violet said, very evenly. “Talk to John. He will explain everything. There are no distractions here. Talk to him. John will explain everything.”

“Turn around,” Anderson said roughly, digging into his jacket pocket, taking out a pair of handcuffs. In broken French, he told the little girl to sit down and shut up. She obeyed, shivering, watching the adults with huge frightened brown eyes.

Violet complied. While she faced John, she silently mouthed to him: Distract him as Anderson yanked one hand off her head and held it behind her behind her back.

John gave the tiniest of nods when he thought Anderson wasn’t looked, not sure what Violet had in mind… then Sherlock’s voice, his real-life, currently strung-out voice, reverberated in his ear. “Janus Cars…” he slurred.

“What?” Anderson asked when finished hand-cuffing Violet but John said quickly “Nothing, he’s high, you know he’s high. Was it you who left the syringes for him?”

John realized as Anderson pushed Violet to her knees that Sherlock didn’t say Janus Cars…

… but Janice Carr…

Had a steady girlfriend, a Janice Carr....Lestrade had said, years and years ago. Neighbors thought she was some sort of fitness or yoga instructor but didn’t know much more about her. 

She had made a really big show to Anderson about putting the gun down…

“Philip,” John said, knowing exactly what he needed to do. “I am sorry. For that, for saying that. And for not believing you.  For letting Sherlock bully you. I should have tried harder. And I wlll. Going forward. Sherlock and I are going to have a long, long discussion about manners and treating people better. Once he comes down from this cloud he’s currently on, ‘course. Let’s leave,” John said, as Anderson approached, gun at his side, his other hand twitching.

John licked his lips “Let’s talk this out. I’ve got the proof. Everything Violet said is true. She’s the reason why Sherlock wound up on that bloody roof. Not you, Philip, do you hear me? It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t Sally’s fault. Violet is Moriarty’s creature. She tricked you just like she tricked me and Sherlock. And she’s blackmailing Sherlock still. That’s why he left on his own, to meet up with you. He had a plan to trap her, but uh, it went slightly awry, wouldn’t you say?”

In the brief time John had been talking, Violet had fallen to her side then rolled to her back, working her cuffed wrists over her hips and backside.

John tensed his legs, ready to spring and tackle Anderson if he turned around to check on Violet. But Anderson’s eyes were transfixed on Sherlock. “Why are you doing that?” Anderson demanded, pointing his gun at Sherlock. “Why do you do that, always that? Protect him? He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your brother.”

Violet had wiggled her wrists over her backside and was working on moving her legs through her arms. Her face was scrunched up in utter agony. She bit her lips so she wouldn’t scream as her cuffed wrist scraped past her injured thigh.  

“He’s my best friend,” John said, keeping his eyes on Anderson, keeping Anderson’s attention on him, not the woman and child behind him. “I’d do anything for him. Just like you’d do anything for Sally,” John saw tears spring into Anderson’s eyes. “I knew she was more than just a bedmate, Philip. She’s your best friend. Isn’t she?”

Anderson’s entire face convulsed for a second. He lowered his weapon slightly. Then he composed himself and pointed the gun at Sherlock again. “Just go, John,” he said wearily.

“No,” John moved in the line of fire. Violet had looped her hands and wrists over her feet.

“Dammit, John, go. They don’t fucking care about you. They don’t even really care about her. It’s him, it’s always been him. He’s the one who got in their way.”

“I helped him get in their way,” John said firmly while behind him, Sherlock slurred “John… no… leave… me… please.”

“No,” John said, jutting his chin up at Anderson, his murderous little smile twisting his lips up as he glared at the forensic specialist. “Not this time, Sherlock.”

 “John!” Anderson’s voice caught. “Don’t make me kill you. Please.”

Violet was on her feet. Quick and quiet as a cat, she snatched her gun up again.

“Sherlock is innocent,” John echoed Violet’s words. “He’s not very nice, but he is innocent. And Philip Anderson is a good man and you will not pull the trigger.”

“John-“ but Anderson never finished his thought because Violet had the gun barrel jammed right into the base of his skull.

“You didn’t check to see if I put the safety back on,” she hissed.

John pointed his firearm at Anderson again. “Put the gun down, Philip,” he said reasonably, standing up. “It’s over,” he held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”

Anderson swallowed hard and relinquished his gun to John.

“Handcuff key,” Violet ordered “Give it to John. Don’t try anything cute. After all,” she purred. “I come from ‘the most trigger happy nation in the free world’.” After Anderson gave John the key, Violet called coaxingly to the child “Ma chérie viens ici. J'ai besoin de votre aide s'il vous plait?”

The little girl had covered her eyes at some point of the Mexican stand-off. Now she spread her fingers wide and peeped through them at the red-haired lady pointing a gun at the bad man who wouldn’t let her go home.

“S'il vous plait?” Violet asked the girl again, her voice warm as fresh baked bread.

The child brushed the dust off her dirty trousers and wiped her nose with her shirt sleeve. With slow, tiny steps she approached the adults, the big scary adults who waved guns around and yelled loud English words she didn’t understand.

John kept his gun trained on Anderson as Violet explained to the little girl she needed her to unlock the handcuffs, that it had all been just a big misunderstanding. The girl looked back and forth at everyone, then at Sherlock. She whispered something unintelligible. Violet crouched down to the girl’s level, putting the gun down, and asked her to repeat herself. The girl whispered into Violet’s ear, babbling for what felt like an eternity. But afterwards, Violet only nodded and said “Oui, il est mon ami.”

With that, the child trotted to John, took the key and, with a terrified glance at Anderson, ran back to Violet. The girl fumbled with the tiny key, but she unlocked the handcuffs quicker than any of the adults expected.

“Bien fait ma petit!” Violet exclaimed, taking the handcuffs from her. Picking up the gun again, she added. “Aller à l'extérieur et attendre.”

The girl didn’t need to be told twice. She whirled around, darted for the door, fumbling with the doorknob. 

“Adieu mon coeur,” Sherlock blurted out from the druggy haze he floated in.

The girl paused, brightening and gave him an enormous smile. “Au revoir Monsieur Holmes.” Then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

“Well, wasn’t that precious,” Violet said, walking around to face Anderson. Then without any warning, she viciously pistol-whipped him across the face, crushing his cheekbone and nose.

“Jesus Christ, Violet!” John cried as Anderson bent forwards, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his cheek and nose. But Violet ignored John as she grabbed Anderson’s shoulder and kneed him in the solar plexus. He gasped for breath and Violet hit him again, an elbow to the face. Anderson fell over and Violet was on his chest, knee on his sternum, gun to his forehead, her free hand pinning his wrist above his head. 

“We need to go, now,” John said, looking back and forth between Violet pinning Anderson and Sherlock half-sitting, half-laying in the corner. He really did not look well. His breathing was shallow, his color ghostly, his pupils pinpoints. He looked up at John piteously, silently asking him for help. I want to go home… John please… 

“Violet, let him go, it’s over,” John went to try to help Sherlock to his feet again.

“It’s not over,” Violet said. “It’s never over. Oh and by the way Anderson? Unborn child? With Molly Hooper? Really? Are you that desperate to believe the worst about everybody?” Anderson replied with a grunt of pain. Violet demanded “What did you give him? What the fuck have you been pumping into his veins all this time?” In a softer voice, she added “I really have no problem killing you, you know. I killed three people to find this place.”

John wished he thought Violet was still playing mind-games when she said that.

It took a moment for Anderson to form the words with his broken cheekbone and broken nose. “Speedball,” he finally said. “Gave ‘im speedballs.”

“Oh God,” John felt despair pooling in his gut “Two of his favorite things in one. Cocaine and morphine. In one jab.”

“No…” Anderson gasped. “Not morphine. Heroin… I think.”

“Heroin!” Violet cried out in horror while John looked at his best friend, dread and pity mixing with the despair.

“No wonder he couldn’t stop,” John muttered “Instantly addictive, heroin.”

“And tomorrow’s dose, on the fourth day, the Sign of Four,” Violet pressed the barrel of the gun harder into Anderson’s forehead “That was going to be the lethal injection, wasn’t it?”

John suddenly remembered what that hateful old man said to him in the surgery: We are giving you a chance to do what you couldn’t do four years ago. Save your friend from himself. Save him from another Fall, from another public disgrace…

“Sherlock Holmes, famous Consulting Detective and addict, found dead in abandoned factory of apparent overdose,” John said grimly. “Ironically, in the same factory that was the Beginning of the Fall. Well, wasn’t that just wrapped up in a tidy little package?”

“Please,” Anderson whimpered. “No choice, I had… no choice.”

“There is always a choice!” Violet yelled in his face. In a lower but no less furious voice, she said “The only options may suck, but there is always a choice!”

“Sally, they took Sally,” he gasped, his tears mixing with his blood. “She was digging. Digging into the whole Magnussen case. She never believed the official story about Magnussen’s death. Never really believed Moriarty was real and could be alive still. She thought if she could prove Sherlock was a murderer, it would vindicate her and absolve her of her part in the Fall. She asked me to help her. I told her that she was wrong. We had a falling-out. She went digging on her own. Got in over her head, got in the way of the wrong people. Moriarty’s people. She came to me, desperate. I told her… I told her she’s my best friend and I’d do anything for her. She said Moriarty’s people wanted to distract Sherlock from what they were really doing, the real crimes they were committing and if she didn’t help, they’d kill her career. Maybe even her, I dunno, she wouldn’t say but I had a feeling... So I planted the four books in John’s house as a warning. I made sure The Met cocked-up the investigation about the break-in so John would call Sherlock to look into it. I knew he’d find that photograph of Jim Moriarty the Petit Rouges hid behind the ugly painting. When Sherlock got too close to the truth, I called him. Told him I had a lead about the bombings. Told him I needed his help. I was supposed to take him to the other side of London, but when we met, well… he told me he already figured out everything and I was to take him where they were keeping the kids and in return, he’d help me find Sally…”

“Except the Rouge knew you were incompetent so they had people here waiting for you and Sherlock to show up,” Violet said contemptuously.

“Philip, these people, they aren’t to be trifled with,” John grunted, finally able to get Sherlock onto his feet. Sherlock leaned on him heavily. John did not like how the simple act of standing up caused Sherlock to be out of breath. Respiratory depression… John had a feeling the heroin-cocaine ratio of the speedballs had a higher concentration of heroin than cocaine in order to keep Sherlock sluggish and compliant… but also slowed down his respiration process...

Breathing’s not so boring now, is it? John couldn’t help thinking.

“She’s here,” Sherlock said into John’s shoulder, arms wrapped around him as John propped him up “In case anyone gives a toss.”

Violet turned and looked up “Sally Donovan’s here? How – oh never mind,” she rolled her eyes.

High as a fucking kite but still was the Most Observant Human Being in the Entire Goddamn World.

He answered her anyway: “Smelled her cheap perfume on Jack Woodley’s gloves when he jabbed me in the neck. He says ‘Hello Vi,’ by the way… ” He waved his hand at Violet.

Violet, lips pressed tightly together, turned her head slightly, tilting it, looking at John, gun barrel still burrowed into Anderson’s forehead. Anderson, wisely, stayed very still, well aware her finger stayed on the trigger. She lifted her eyebrows, silently asking the captain what to do next.

“We can’t leave her,” John sighed, holding Sherlock up “Hey, Sherlock? Where is Sally? Can you tell us?”

“Up,” was all he was able to manage to spit out, his head lolling forward as if the strain of holding it up was far too much to handle.

“You said there were stairs?” Violet asked “On the other side of the building? Leading up to some sort of office space?” When John confirmed this, Violet got off of Anderson. “Get up. You’re with me. John, get Sherlock and the kid out of here. I’ll meet you at the cab.”

“You took a cab?” Anderson asked as he slowly got up, wiping blood off his face.

“In a matter of speaking,” John said.

“Go,” Violet waved her gun at Anderson. “You think I’m going to walk in front of you?”

Once they were out of earshot of John and Sherlock, she said casually to Anderson “You realize if you tell anyone about Violet Hunter, you’re a dead man, right?”

“I just want to get Sally and get out of here,” he said, nervously eyeing Gladstone when he joined his mistress’ side. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

“Should have done a better job convincing Sally to leave this alone,” Violet said unsympathetically.

“You should have done a better job convincing Sherlock to leave this alone!”

“Fair enough,” Violet said. “But if you don’t convince Sally to leave Sherlock alone, there won’t be a next time or clever cat-and-mouse game. They’ll just kill her. And your ex-wife too, just to make sure the message really sinks in.”

“I didn’t know about the kids,” he pleaded, his gait still a bit unsteady after being twice hit in the face by Violet. “Honest. I thought it was just drugs.”

“Do you think I give a shit about what you think?” Violet said, keeping her gun pointed at Anderson’s back.

When they reached the flight of stairs however, Gladstone began growling. His growls became more pronounced as they climbed the dusty metal stairs. “What?” Anderson said nervously.

“Move aside; let him through,” Violet said, her voice deathly calm “Stone, suchlauf.”

Gladstone zipped past Violet and Anderson. Once at the top of the stairs, he began barking madly, pawing the door.

“Oh, this is not good,” Violet said as Anderson tentatively turned around to face her. “Stone’s a retired bomb detection police dog.”

Anderson paled “Shit. And Sherlock said…”

“Listen to me,” Violet said, grabbing him by his shirt, pointing the gun in his face. “If you want to help her, you lie to her. You tell her, no matter what, that everything is going to be alright. Do you hear me?” When Anderson nodded, Violet let him go and waved him forward. Anderson took the stairs two at a time in his haste, right behind him. She gave Gladstone the command to cease barking and told Anderson to open the door.

Slowly, Anderson turned the doorknob, half-expecting some sort of explosion. When nothing happened, he opened the door wider. “Oh God,” he said in a strangled voice.

Violet peered around Anderson. Her mouth dropped open.

Sally Donovan, blindfolded, sat wearing a suicide-bomber’s vest, tied to an old office chair.

Behind her were stacks and stacks and stacks of Semtex.

As Anderson raced to Sally, Violet reached into her trousers pocket and dialed the Smartphone. John’s voice immediately was in her ear, thanks to the magic of the Bluetooth earpiece “Yeah?”

“Any chance Sherlock sobered up?” she whispered, pocketing the mobile.

“Well,” John puffed. Getting Sherlock to put one bare foot in front of the other was proving to be a tedious challenge. “He just informed me he can see sounds, so I would say no.”

“OK. If you’re not out, get out, this place is rigged to blow. Sally’s the detonator.”

“Jesus Christ,” John said bleakly “Right.” To Sherlock, he said “We have to move, Sherlock. Come on, let’s go, bit faster now.”

Sherlock staggered, tried to walk faster, but tripped over his own feet “So tired… the heroin… thought it was morphine, the first time, the first jab… should have… seen… observed…  I can’t move… I can’t think…” he whimpered.  

“I know, but we can’t stay here,” John said urgently.  “I’ll help you, OK?”

While John struggled to get his friend to safety, Violet entered the small room that had obviously been some sort of supervisor’s office at one point. Anderson was kneeling in front of Sally, caressing her face. He had removed her blindfold. Gladstone paced back and forth in front of the Semtex.

“Aus,” she said softly. Gladstone froze but his ears perked up. Violet repeated herself and Gladstone again, obeyed, trotting out of the room. “Sally? It’s me, Violet Smith,” she turned the faux British accent back on. “Sherlock’s girlfriend, you do remember me?”

Sally’s hands were bound to the arms of the office chair with zip ties. “The detonator is weight-sensitive,” she wasted no time. “If I get out of this chair, the vest goes off.”

“Lovely,” she muttered, pocketing the gun. “Mr. Anderson, could you be so kind as to call Detective Inspector Lestrade?” When Anderson looked at her blankly, she scowled at him “Unless you prefer being blown to bits, of course.”

Anderson took out his mobile, hit a sped-dial button then handed it to Violet.

Immediately Lestrade’s voice was in Violet’s ear, the other ear, without the Bluetooth. “Anderson you have a lot of explaining to d-“

“Detective Inspector, it’s Violet Smith.”

“Violet! Thank God. Good news, I hope?”

“Mm, good and bad. We found Sherlock, which is good. We also found Sally Donovan in a room full of explosives, tied to an office chair that has a spring-loaded denotation device which will explode if there is any shift in weight. That’s the bad bit,” Violet had knelt down and was looking under the chair, “I can see the actual detonator. How fast can you get bomb removal here?”

“Twenty minutes,” Lestrade said confidently.

Then there was the beep. Just one, but everyone squeezed their eyes and cringed. When everyone realized they were still in one piece, Violet looked at the detonator again. “Ahh…” she said faintly, well aware John could also hear everything she was saying through the Bluetooth since they never disconnected their call. “That’s not going to work. A countdown clock just turned on the detonator and is ticking down as I speak. We have less than fifteen minutes.”

“Philip, go,” Donovan said, resigned. “It’s no good.”

“I can’t, I won’t -” Anderson ran his knuckles down her cheek.

Her back to the lovers, Violet rolled her eyes and tried not to gag. Not how I want to spend my final minutes on Earth….

Meanwhile, downstairs, John urged Sherlock on. “I know you feel really bad right now, but you’ve got to keep walking! Please Sherlock, for me, try and hurry…”

Fifteen minutes? Can I possibly get him and the girl out of here in fifteen minutes… shit where IS the girl? And I don’t speak French… oh God…  “Violet,” John said out-loud, hoping she would hear him through the Bluetooth. “What’s going on?”

“DI Lestrade is getting someone from bomb removal right now. We’re going to talk through video-chat and he’s going to walk me through diffusing,” Violet Smith replied.

Amazing how much calmer she sounded as cool, unruffled Miss Smith rather than tense, controlled Agent Hunter.

“Turn the video chat on now,” Lestrade said in her other ear.  Violet obeyed and a handsome black man’s face filled the screen. “Name’s Collins,” he said briskly. “Show me.”

Violet held the mobile up so he could see the room, then she walked around Donovan, showing him every angle of her predicament. Then she knelt on the ground again and showed him the detonator on the bottom of the chair.

“Right,” Collins said “Tricky, but not impossible. Do you have a steady hand?” 

“Yes,” Violet switched the mobile from her right to her left hand.

“Anything sharp to cut a wire with?”

Violet reached into her boot and produced her serrated knife.

The bomb specialist blinked. “That’ll do.” He recovered quickly. “First, you’ll need to…”

As Collins talked Violet through bomb-diffusion, John and Sherlock nearly reached the exit. The little girl sat next to the open door, biting her nails in agitation. Gladstone sat near her but not too close, not sure what to make of this tiny human.

“We’re almost there,” John said, almost dragging Sherlock now. Just have to get him away from the building, in case it blows. We’ll figure out how to get him to the cab later. “Just a few more steps, there you go, you’re doing really well, Sherlock. Just a little bit faster now, double-time now, come on…”

“Double…” Sherlock rolled the word around, as if tasting an unpleasant cough lozenge when he was expecting a sweet. Then his eyes widened. “Double! Double, John double!” He pushed John away and started staggering towards the stairs but nearly fell down.

John caught him in time and hauled him upright. “Double, double, what? Sherlock?”

“Double detonation,” he finally managed to spit out. “Like the one in Violet’s kitchen that night, that first night… that…” he clawed at John’s shirt “Boom.”

“Boom… oh shit!” John yelped, remembering very clearly now…

This has a double- detonation. If I find a way to stop the clock on this timer, then a second timer will automatically begin, with a shorter denotation time…

“Violet! Violet!” he yelled, hoping she would hear him through the Bluetooth. “Don’t cut the wire! Don’t cut the wire, it’s a double-denotation, like the bomb in your kitchen!” He dragged Sherlock with him towards the exit. “Aw-shh, Stone, Aw-shh,” he again mangled the German but the dog understood and bolted.

Violet had just sawed through the final wire and given the all-clear when she heard John’s warning. Anderson had undone the zip ties as Collins talked Violet through which wires to cut. Fuck my life… she thought, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds.

Then she was on her feet, jerking the vest off of Donovan as she stood up, noting how heavy it felt. She took her knife and sawed through the fabric of the vest.

There was more Semtex inside the vest lining and a very small timer, silently ticking down.

Then there was another beep. Violet, Donovan and Anderson whipped their heads around and saw the detonator on the stacks of Semtex light up and start ticking down in tandem to the timer inside Donovan’s suicide vest. 

She threw the vest away from her instinctively. “Run, run!” she yelled, pulling Donovan towards the door. “Come on!” she yelled at Anderson, who was frozen to the spot.

“What’s going on?” Anderson said as Donovan grabbed his hand when she wrenched hers from Violet’s grip. Together they followed Violet down the stairs.

Despite the pain, she took the steps, two, three at a time as she panted “Double-detonation device,” she pressed her hand to her throbbing thigh. “We accidentally activated it when we diffused the first device, now stop asking me stupid questions and move!”

They all hurried down the stairs quickly as possible. But Donovan, having been tied for nearly three days now, moved stiffly and painfully.  Once on the ground floor, Anderson stopped to pick her up, intending to carry her. Violet looked back briefly but forced herself to run.

She burst through the exit, into the sunlight. She saw that John and Sherlock had made it outside, with the little girl trailing after them, chattering in her strangely accented French. But they were nowhere near out of the blast range. John tried to keep Sherlock moving and encouraging the child to hurry up, but Sherlock kept wobbling, wincing as he stepped on gravel with his bare feet. And the child obviously didn’t understand a word coming out of John’s mouth.

Puffing like an Olympic sprinter, she caught up to John, Sherlock and the child. Fueled by fear and adrenaline now, she scooped the girl up in her arms without breaking her stride and yelled at the two men “Go, go, go!” not even realizing she had dropped the faux British accent.  

John had his arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder, as if they were in a three-legged race “Faster, Sherlock, must move fas-”

Then everything turned topsy-turvy. John felt his feet leaving the ground. He felt heat on his back and debris hitting his body. He felt himself slamming into the ground again then rolling to his side. The consciousness mercifully slipped away for just a little bit…

… Afghanistan… hot, merciless, unforgiving… he was in the back of a military transport, taking the wounded back to base after retrieving them from a hot spot, telling the lads the usual lies, everything was going to be alright, we’ll get you patched up, good as new…

… then the vehicle spun out of control, as if it had been in a car crash. IED, he thought before the vehicle flipped over, one, twice then stopped. Men and instruments and weapons tumbled pell-mell. Everything and everyone lay on the roof of the transport. A young soldier, a boy no more than twenty, had landed on John’s leg. The weight of him was painful, the realization the boy was now dead from a broken neck was excruciating…

… he crawled out from underneath the dog pile of bodies and equipment and out of the vehicle. His leg hurt. Limping, he looking around, dazed… he felt a trickle of blood running down his head… he was tempted to un-strap his helmet, fairly certain he was concussed…

… then something small and sharp entered through his shoulder and exploded out of his back. Pain beyond pain wracked his body as he fell forward… shot, I’ve been shot… I… need to get up… I will not die here…

John opened his eyes.

For a moment all he saw was the battlefield…

But then a breeze, a soft English wind, brushed his face. He took a deep whooping breath. It hurt, but it was air and it was wonderful.

He sat up, grimacing. Everything hurt but everything worked. His wiggled his fingers and toes. His ears were ringing but even that was already subsiding.

Blinking in the bright daylight, he looked around him, slowly getting to his feet.

The building behind him was half-collapsed. A slow fire consumed what was left of it.

A few feet to the right of him, Violet helped the little girl up, brushing off the soot and dust, asking her in French if she was hurt. The girl shook her head and hugged Violet. Violet grimaced at the touch, but hid her pain when she broke the hug, smiling at the child.

A few feet to the left, Sherlock lay motionless.

John scrambled to his friend, kneeling down again. “Sherlock, Sherlock!” he cried as a wave of nausea overtook him. He dimly registered he may have a concussion. He definitely had a hell of a headache. “Sherlock, please,” he begged, checking his pulse.

It was there, inconsistent, but there. Then Sherlock opened his eyes, those eerie, incandescent, beautiful eyes of his…

He gave John a dopey smile. “Wheeee…” he said weakly.

John couldn’t help but chuckle. “You prat,” he said, helping Sherlock sit up. He looked around. “Violet?” he called out “Where’s Sally and Philip?”

Violet had unsteadily gotten to her feet. She tried to pick the little girl up, but her knees buckled. So Violet took the child’s hand instead and together they walked towards John and Sherlock. “They were right behind me,” she said, looking behind her at the burning building. “John, I swear, they were right behind me. Philip was trying to help Sally and…” she had trailed off. “I didn’t leave them on purpose.”

“S’OK, I believe you,” John said, helping Sherlock sit up. “Stay put,” he ordered Sherlock. “I’ll take a look,” John told Violet. Head pounding, ears ringing, he cautiously headed back towards the destroyed factory.

He found them both, lying underneath some rubble, nothing extraordinarily heavy, but heavy enough to pin them both down. John was able to move charred beams and bits of concrete off of the sergeant and forensics specialist on his own. He first checked Donovan out. Other than being unconscious and some minor burns and abrasions, she seemed to be OK.

Anderson, on the other hand, was a different story. The side of his head was completely crushed, as if a child had kicked in a rotting jack-o-lantern.

The worst part was the man was still alive. His chest rose and fell laboriously.

John saw the battleground again. Triage. Would it be more merciful to help Anderson towards the light or to try and pull him back into this dark and dangerous world again?

John turned his back on him, deciding it wasn’t his job to play God. Let Him decide, if He really was out there, keeping watch over his sparrows.

He made his way back towards the people who counted.

Violet, still holding the girl’s hand, lifted her eyebrows, again silently asking him what was going on. John shook his head “Sally’ll be alright, but Philip… doubtful he’ll pull through this. We should go, before Scotland Yard arrives. I’m sure Lestrade has mobilized every unit when he heard there was a double detonation.” He looked down at Sherlock, who still sat on the ground, propping himself up by his arms, his legs splayed widely out in front of him. His eyes, pupils still pinned from the injected coke-and-poppy cocktails, locked on Violet, staring at her as if transfixed. He trembled from head to toe.

“Don’t ask me,” she said, shrugging. “He’s been doing that since you left. Kind of creepy, not going to lie.”

“She knows my secret,” Sherlock burst out, his voice thin, childlike.

“What?” John said, kneeling down by him.

“She knows my secret,” Sherlock started becoming agitated, gripping John’s dirty coat sleeve, as if hanging on for dear life. “She… she deduced my secret… Molly… and she used it. Used me!” he exploded into uncharacteristic anger. “Just like everyone else… you’re not any different, you’re just like the rest… you fucking conniving bitch!” he shouted at Violet.

John’s mouth dropped open, having never heard Sherlock use an expletive stronger than damn or hell. He looked up just in time to see the hurt clouding Violet’s eyes before she turned away, stroking the little girl’s tangled hair. “We should go, John,” Violet said without a glance behind her. “Like you said, before the Yard gets here.”

Sherlock continued to babble “They’ll take her John, they’ll take her, they’ll hurt her, hurt both of them,” he clung to John desperately. “You can’t let anyone know. You can’t let her tell anyone else, you can’t let anyone hurt Molly or the baby, they count… please John, promise me, please…”

It’s the drugs, it’s the drugs…. John told himself. But the truth of what Sherlock was telling him sank in, confirming his initial suspicions… he did, after all, suspect Molly’s condition before Mary voiced her opinion…but never in a million years dreamed that the father was actually… Oh Sherlock, what have you done? “Listen,” he put his hands around Sherlock’s wrists as Sherlock continued to grasp his coat. “Nothing is going to happen to Molly or the baby.”

“She told me she didn’t want anything from me, she told me I’d be an awful father, is that true John? I was alright with Archie at your wedding, wasn’t I?” Before John could answer, Sherlock’s trembling turning into violent shaking “She said I couldn’t even see the child if I was using again. John, don’t tell her about this, she’ll think…she’ll believe I wanted to be high… I thought they were going to give me morphine, not heroin, I thought I could stop… please don’t tell her, John… I want to at least see him… once… just once…”

John felt something tearing apart in his chest as he helped Sherlock to his feet. “She will know this isn’t your fault,” he said as he guided Sherlock towards the black cab. “She won’t hold this one against you. She will know this was against your will. And I won’t let anyone hurt Molly or the baby. I’ll take care of everything…”

Be damned if I know how I’m going to… but I will… he thought. Somehow…

Inside the cab, already in the driver’s seat, Violet waited for John and Sherlock. The little girl sat in the passenger side next to her. Gladstone, faster than all the humans, had made it safely to the cab and now sat in the backseat.

When she saw John approaching the cab, with Sherlock leaning against him like an exhausted little boy, she turned the car on.

John opened the cab door and Gladstone hopped out. The dog waiting as John helped Sherlock into the back seat and covered him with the blanket he had found in the boot. Then the dog jumped back into the cab, next to Sherlock and John shut the door.

“Hello, Redbeard,” Sherlock whispered, stroking the dog’s fur. 

John meanwhile went to the driver’s seat and made a gesture indicating he wanted Violet to roll down the window. “I’m sorry,” he said in a sotto voice to her while Sherlock was distracted by the Alsatian. “He is appallingly high. He knows you risked your life to save his. What he said, he didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, he did,” she said but there was no rancor in her voice. Violet smiled at John, any trace of hurt erased from her face. Her practical nature had resumed control. “But he was right. It was a bitch move to make.”

“It was the right call.” John straightened up, hearing sirens in the distance. “Let’s get out of here. I need to text Mycroft.”

John jogged around the black cab and got in on the other side, sitting next to Sherlock. The tall thin man, as if sensing his presence rather than seeing it, curled up next to John, his head on his shoulder. Violet glanced at the pair in the backseat and quickly looked away as John put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. As she put the vehicle in gear and drove away from the burning factory, a previous communication flashed through her mind: 

…What you are trying to communicate to me in that long convoluted soliloquy is that John is emotionally invested in me but not physically attracted, which is confusing him.

Bingo.

Oh…

…Why is it so hard for you to see what he is going through?

I see it. I see everything… What do you propose?

…That’s between you and John. You two need to figure that out. I’m just sharing my observations…. At the end of the day, I don’t feel like getting shot because you two love birds can’t get your shit figured out...

I noticed you never asked me about my… feelings for John…

I don’t have to ask Violet thought, eyes on the road, studiously avoiding looking in the wing mirror, wanting to give John and Sherlock the illusion of privacy. And also to give Sherlock a chance to calm down, to feel safe and secure… to feel loved again as his best friend idly ran his hand over what was left of his black curls while watching out the window how the scenery transform from industrial to urban.

During the drive, Violet asked the little girl to tell everyone who she was and what had happened. Violet translated for John, knowing she’d have to remember to relay everything to Sherlock later, after the inevitable crash, of course.

She was called Beatriu. She was nearly six years old. She thought she was born in Andorra, but she wasn’t sure. Her big brother was called Alvar and he was much better at remembering that sort of thing. She did know she had mostly lived in a small town in France, which would account for her oddly-accented French if her parents were indeed Catalan. But her papa had lost his job and there was no work in France so they moved to England.

She didn’t like London, it was loud and dirty. Maman and papa fought all the time. Papa still didn’t have a job and often came home smelling like beer. Sometimes papa would leave after he and maman fought, but he usually came back. One night though, he didn’t. 

Maman worked all the time, had two jobs, but lost one of them because she didn’t have Papers, which was silly, you can buy paper at any old shop. Then maman lost her other job because she caught a cough that wouldn’t go away. They moved in with a friend of maman’s, a dirty nasty flat with too many men coming and going, too many children running about and the ladies didn’t wear proper clothes, just lacy pyjamas. 

The ladies asked maman if she wanted a nice nightie of her own, but she said she’d rather wear her housecleaning clothes and clear up after the men and the all the kids. But the flat still stayed dirty no matter how hard maman worked and her cough still would not go away.

So maman’s friend, whose name was Madam, told her about a place where a nurse didn’t care about Papers as long as you gave her some extra money. Maman sold her wedding ring and they all went to this surgery that was not too far from the flat they all stayed at.

The surgery, like the flat, was not nice. Again, too many people, too many children. Everyone was sick. Beatriu held onto her brother’s hand. Alvar was smart, he was eleven and clever, except when he lost his temper. Then he said stupid things like: Papa was her papa, not his papa or that they hadn’t gotten the Queen of England’s permission to stay in London.

Alvar whispered to Beatriu that he remembered mémé’s, their grandmother’s telephone number and while maman was in the examination room, he was going to ask the nurse to use the telephone so he could ring mémé and tell hershe needed to bring them back to France. Alvar was very clever. He even knew loads of English words after only being here a few months…

Before he could though get to a telephone, a different nurse, not the one at the front desk, approached them. In slow French, she asked them to come with her, there was a different waiting room she needed them to go into… a special room just for children…

… but they didn’t go into a different waiting room. They were joined by five other children, who didn’t speak English or French and they were led out the backdoor into a van. Alvar started yelling, trying to run away while taking Beatriu with him. But a Bad Man had reached around, hit Alvar very hard and threw him back into the van, making him bleed. Then he grabbed Beatriu by her arm and it hurt really bad. He threw her back into the van and slammed the door shut.

As they drove away, Beatriu thought she heard a really loud noise, a bang or a boom, but she didn’t know for sure. The windows in the van were painted black.

The bad people brought them to the dirty old factory and locked them in a big room with no windows. There were other kids. Some were really little. Some big, like Alvar. No one spoke French or English. One kid spoke Spanish. Alvar knew a little Spanish, but not enough to talk to that kid, not really.

It was cold and scary there, the factory. The only nice thing was they got to eat three times a day. Most days, after papa went away and maman got sick, Beatriu and Alvar usually only ate twice a day, on really bad days, only once.

Even so, even with regular meals, the little ones cried most of the time. The big ones would cry when they thought the little ones were asleep.

Then, one day, a very Scary Man came to see them. He wore a very nice suit, like what some of the men wore, the ones who would visit the flat and talk to their favorite lady in the back room.

Half of the Scary Man’s face and his hand looked melted, like a candle.

Violet’s voice faltered when she translated that part. She risked a glance in the wing mirror, saw John unconsciously hold Sherlock just a little tighter to him.

The Earl of Winchester.

The little girl continued. The Melted Man walked around and around, looking at all the kids, saying things in English she didn’t understand but she didn’t like the way he made her feel. Then he had looked at Alvar, ran his yucky melted hand over Alvar’s black curly hair and laughed. A mean, quiet laugh. Alvar had wanted to hit him, but there was a Bad Man with a Gun standing next to the Melted Man.

Beatriu knew what Guns were and what they did.

Then the Melted Man left and Alvar sat down with Beatriu and had A Serious Talk. He told her the Scary Man was adopting him and this was Not A Good Thing. He told her the other Bad Men were going to take all the other kids away, including her. He told her she must do everything she can to run away. She must fight, bite, hit, scream, kick… do whatever she could to get a Policeman or a Good Grown-Up to see she was In Trouble.

Daily, he had her practice the English words for Aidez-Moi!

But three days ago, the door had opened and it wasn’t a Bad Man or the Melted Man. It was that man, the sick man, in the backseat. Monsieur Holmes. He asked all sorts of questions in all sorts of languages. Finally he asked Parlez-vous français?”

Alvar ran up to him, holding Beatriu’s hand, saying Oui, oui Monsieur!

Monsieur Holmes had bent down so he was eye-to-eye with Alvar and said Le qui, quoi, où, quand, pourquoi et comment?

Alvar told Monsieur Holmes everything that had happened to them so far. When he told him about the Melted Man, Monsieur Holmes looked upset. His voice had gone funny when he asked Alvar if the Melted Man had done anything more than touch his hair. When Alvar shook his head, Monsieur Holmes took his scarf off and wrapped it around Alvar’s neck, told him he had been very brave, but it was almost over now, he would get them out of there to somewhere safe…

…then a Bad Man, a man Monsieur Holmes thought was his friend, pointed a Gun at Monsieur Holmes’ head.

“Anderson,” John muttered and Violet nodded in agreement. Magnussen would have been very proud of Anderson for detecting one of Sherlock’s pressure points and pushing…

The little girl went on. The Bad Man kept a gun pointed at Monsieur Holmes until another Bad Man came along, a tall man with silver hair. He spoke English, but it was sounded funny. Not like the English spoken in London. Like Violet’s English, when she wasn’t speaking French.

“Jack Woodley,” Violet felt hatred boiling in her very core of her being. You will die screaming…

Beatriu, oblivious to the adults’ emotions, continued chattering away. The silver-haired man had a gun and a tape recorder. He grabbed one of the other kids, pointed a gun at her head and said something to Monsieur Holmes in his funny sounding English Beatriu didn’t understand.

Alvar explained later the Silver-Haired Bad Man told Monsieur Holmes if he didn’t do exactly what he was told, he would kill a kid every minute he delayed. He made Monsieur Holmes say some English words into tape recorder. Then he yelled for some more Bad Men to come to hold him down.

The Silver-Haired Bad Man pulled a syringe out of his pocket. Beatriu didn’t understand what was happening, Monsieur Holmes didn’t look ill then but maybe they knew how he ill he was going to become. But Monsieur Holmes didn’t want to be jabbed, he started fighting the Bad Men holding him down… but the Silver-Haired Bad Man stuck the needle in his neck and took him away, leaving all the kids alone locked into that room again…

… until this morning, the Bad Men came and took all the kids away.

Except her.

She tried clinging to Alvar, but the Bad Men pulled them apart, leaving her all alone, locked in that empty room. Until the Bad Man Monsieur Holmes thought was his friend unlocked the door, grabbed her by the arm and told her in very bad French if she didn’t obey him, he’d kill her. Then, he had dragged her into the room where she saw them with guns and Monsieur Holmes, ill in the corner.

By the time Beatriu finished her story, they had parked in the alley behind Baker Street and John and Violet both were nearly in tears.