Chapter Text
The Solitary Hunter Trilogy
Series Two: The Copper Beaches
“I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back
They're gonna rip it off
Taking their time right behind my back
And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone
Don't want to hear about it
Every single one's got a story to tell
Everyone knows about it
From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell…”
From Seven Army Nation, The White Stripes
**
“Dear Mr. Holmes:
I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you.
Yours faithfully,
Violet Hunter”
From The Adventure of the Copper Beeches by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
~*~*~
Chapter One: When in Rome
“John?”
At the sound of the young voice of his literary agent’s personal assistant, Dr. John Watson looked up from his Smartphone. “Hi Lydia, is he ready for me then?”
“Yes, he sends his apologies, he got trapped by a conference call,” the young woman smiled widely and held the door even more widely open. “He’ll see you now.”
“Great, thanks,” he said, gathering his messenger bag, his mobile and his wits.
Located in a very unfashionable part of London, the office was not posh or even very modern looking. Very utilitarian, the carpets and furniture all dull shades of beige and grey. John did not really give a toss what the office looked like or what the address was. He cared about the work they did for him. And his family.
And by family, that of course included his very best friend, the eccentric and brilliant Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. The finest and cleverest man John had ever met… and whom he wanted to smack about the head and shoulders from time to time.
But nobody was perfect.
“John!” his agent, Timothy Spotsworth, got up from his desk to shake John’s hand. “Apologies, apologies. That twat at Random House would not shut up. Did Lydia offer you tea? Coffee?”
John shook his head, stated he had been asked but did not need a drink and settled as best as he could into the uncomfortable chair in front of Timothy’s desk. A lean man with graying hair and outdated bifocals, Timothy had been the only literary agent willing to take John on as a client after John took Mary’s advice about turning his blogs into proper novels.
As Timothy started to explain, all those other agents, as well as all the other publishers who had turned John’s book down, were now wailing and gnashing their teeth.
“The news couldn’t be better. As you already know The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist has moved up to the Number Four Spot on the New York Times Best Sellers List, which is bloody fantastic. Wildly exceeds our expectations. That was the telephone call I was stuck in. We’re discussing a possible second re-printing and if so, how many. Random House thinks Sherlock’s popularity will only grow, especially in America, the Anglophiles can’t get enough of us.”
“Wow,” John said, a little faintly. “Great, fantastic.”
“I just got the numbers in for the digital downloads as well and it’s Number Nine on iTunes, Number Seven on BarnesandNoble.com and Number Thirteen on Amazon, which are also enormous jumps as well. And we’ve settled on a date for the hard-cover release of The Case Blog of Sherlock Holmes. I’ll have Lydia email you the date and the marketing itinerary so you can be sure your diary is clear as possible for the press tour, some signings and readings at bookstores, you know the usual…” he hesitated. “I don’t suppose you could convince Mr. Holmes to put in a few appearances?”
“Not for all the tea in China nor the Scotch in Scotland,” John said firmly.
“Right, I figured, but never hurts to ask,” Timothy said, a bit disgruntled now. But he shook it off. “Speaking of America, Hollywood has been sniffing around a bit too. No firm offers yet but Robert Downey Jr. has expressed an interest in playing the lead if a film adaptation gets the green light, which is exciting.”
John grinned “I honestly don’t know if that would please Sherlock or irritate him.”
“Well, I’m not sure if my next bit of news will please or irritate you. CBS has expressed their interest in creating a television show loosely based off the books and blog.”
“How loose?”
“Err… they want to cast a woman as Dr. Watson.”
“Oh,” John blinked. “Well… um, as long as it’s a pretty lady, I guess I don’t mind.”
“Mind you, this is all talk. I haven’t received any solid offers.”
“Yes, of course,” John said, a little dazed.
What did he say all those years ago in Ella’s office during therapy?
Nothing ever happens to me…
“So,” Timothy said brightly, “All we need to discuss is you fulfilling your contract and giving us that third book…” he trailed off, giving John a persuasive smile.
John shook his head. “I know what you want me to write about. But I can’t. It’s still too soon.”
“John, it’s been three years.”
“It’s only been three years,” John said, shaking his head. “Besides, that’s not my call. Sherlock already said no. I have not been given permission to write about…”
His throat suddenly closed up. He swallowed hard. “… about the shooting.”
“Somebody else might take it in their head to write about it.” There was a hint of a warning, a touch of a warning in Timothy’s voice.
“Then that somebody else will look like a bloody idiot when Sherlock is ready to share that story and I write the truth about it, won’t they?” John responded quietly.
“OK, OK,” Timothy held his hands up. “Truce, please. I understand, I do. I’m not heartless. It’s a very painful subject and I just thought… Well,” Timothy sounded flustered for moment but recovered quickly “But since we do still need a third book, let’s hash out what that one should be about.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder. Flipping through it, he said “I’ve got some ideas… we could flesh out the first case you worked with Mr. Holmes… the Study in Pink case? The Hounds of Baskerville case could be great as a novel too… it’s almost like an old-fashioned gothic horror novel…” He flipped another page over, pausing. “Or…then there’s the Copper Beaches case.” He took out a photograph and handed it to John.
John took it, smiled a little.
Violet.
One of the few photographs of her in existence.
She stood next to Sherlock Holmes, clad in a fantastic electric-blue gown, her chestnut hair straightened and styled sleekly in an old femme fatale style popular in the classic black-and-white films. Her long hair obscured most of her face. What her hair didn’t hide, a huge pair of sunglasses did.
Sherlock looked like he always did when forced to make public appearance: scowling, unfriendly, disdainful. He wore one of his posh designer suits, of course and his hair the usual mess of black curls.
As John reminisced, Timothy said “You know, that would make a good bookend to The Solitary Cyclist. And it doesn’t dredge up too many uncomfortable memories, does it?”
“Mmm,” John said, sliding the picture back to Timothy. “I’ll run it past Sherlock. Can’t guarantee anything. If I can’t get him to consent to The Copper Beaches, I’m sure he’ll agree to either A Study in Pink or The Hounds.”
“Sounds good,” Timothy stood up again. “Always a pleasure, these face-to-face meetings. Doesn’t happen too often does it?”
John shook Timothy’s hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, for us. My head’s still spinning, all of this is still sinking in. I-I really can’t believe it.”
“Enjoy it, you deserve it. The both of you. All of you, really.” Timothy said. He then cleared his throat, looked slightly uncomfortable. “Meant to ask you, how is everything with you? On the home front?”
“Um, good. OK, considering,” John said, now desperately wanting to leave. He knew exactly what Timothy’s next question was going to be:
“How’s Mary?”
John searched for an appropriate answer. He smiled wanly.
“As well as can be expected…”
**
18 July 2015
London, England
Saturday
2:25 PM
Panda cars had parked haphazardly everywhere. Police tape decorated the scene like ribbons on a Christmas present. Coppers and forensics ran about like decapitated chickens. Reporters shouted out stupid questions and the paparazzi kept snapping pictures of anything and everything at the scene, their flashes as bright as the sun itself.
A scene. He had created a scene!
He wriggled with excitement, worked hard to keep the glee from showing on his face.
This was his third murder. In broad daylight. And he was going to get away with it.
He was going to be The One to Stump Sherlock Holmes.
He had stayed hidden in the crowd, blended in with the other onlookers. He had risen to his tiptoes, to look over the heads of the other spectators when the inevitable black cab pulled up to thekerb . He could barely manage to see the top of the Great Detective’s curly head before he disappeared inside the third victim’s terrace house. There was no way he could tell whether or not the Good Doctor was with him.
He lowered himself back to stand flatfooted, his face concerned and worried like everyone else. Inside, he was singing an aria of joy.
He was going to get away with it.
There was zero physical evidence. Zero. There was nothing to connect him to the three women he had killed. He had deliberately selected his victims at random. The poison was rat-bait you could buy at any convenience store, and he deliberately bought the poison at different stores, different chains. Paid cash, of course.
The women had all let him in and he had killed them before they even knew they were dead.
He was going to get away with it.
And he was going to do it again. And again. And again.
And Sherlock Holmes would go mad with impotence, with the inability to solve this case.
He would be more infamous than Jim Moriarty.
“Um, pardon me? Sir?”
A melodic, fluid voice interrupted his happy daydreams. Frowning, he turned and looked to see a well-dressed woman standing next to him, wearing ridiculously overlarge sunglasses. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in some fancy up-do topped off with a dainty hat with a stupid little veil. A gauzy scarf was tied jauntily around her slender neck. Her spring-green dress seemed more appropriate to a garden party than a murder scene.
“Yes?” he asked, swallowing his irritation.
“You know, if you’re going to commit murder, you really should not return to the scene of the crime,” she said helpfully.
His jaw dropped. “What?”
She made a twirling motion with her finger “Turn around.”
He turned.
Sherlock Holmes stood less than an inch away from him. “Hello.”
He yelped, tried to run, but Sherlock grabbed him by his arm then twisted it roughly behind his back. “Simon Mitchell, as it is that I am on a rather tight schedule, I would appreciate it if you would just cooperate as I turn you over to the authorities.”
The onlookers had backed up, wide-eyed and slack-jawed that the killer and the detective and his mysterious new “assistant” (and also rumored live-in girlfriend) had been in their midst the entire time.
Sherlock’s “assistant/girlfriend” looked at her watch, a dainty gold lady’s watch that looked more like a bracelet than a proper wristwatch. “You have no idea how tight of a time schedule.”
“Thank you, Miss Smith,” Sherlock started pushing Simon through the crowd, towards the police. “Perhaps instead of alerting me to how behind we are falling in schedule, you could be more useful by clearing a path for me and Mr. Mitchell?”
“Oh with pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” her musical voice sang with sarcasm. But she plucked her mobile out of her elegant handbag and rang Detective Inspector Dimmock as she attempted to push through the crowd of onlookers, press and paparazzi. Soon, officers from The Met, accompanied by DI Dimmock managed to create a path so Sherlock, Violet Smith and the very unlucky Simon Mitchell could get out of the crowd and behind the police tape.
“Obvious,” Sherlock said as a confused sergeant handcuffed a whimpering Mitchell. “His laces. He bought the same brand and same color of shoelaces at every convenience store he had bought the rat poison. He suffered from a mild case of OCD, cannot stand to have his laces dirty, will change them nearly daily. If you search his flat, you’ll find, hidden buried inside a bag of used kitty litter, the empty rat poison packages. He felt it too risky to dispose of the packages at the scene and he was too arrogant to think he would ever be caught. After all, he’s a Mormon on a mission from Salt Lake City in America, right? No Mormon would ever be guilty of committing murder. That would be a sin. And who would turn away a young man in a foreign county, so lost and forlorn. Especially one who just wants to know if you can spare a moment to talk about your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”
Sherlock smiled sweetly at Simon Mitchell who started gibbering that he was innocent, he wasn’t an American, he was British. “Oh, I know you’re British. I also know you’ve attended several acting and improvisational classes throughout London, so I know you can fake an American accent. And I also know that when the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints sends their young people out on a mission, they send them out by two, not one. You thought you were hiding in plain sight, in the end, you were rather obvious. Now, DI Dimmock,” Sherlock turned his back on Mitchell as the police dragged him away. “I hope you were writing that down because I’m afraid I have a very pressing engagement I must attend.”
“Of course, yes, thank you Mr. Holmes,” DI Dimmock said a bit breathlessly, “And you too Miss Smith. Thank you for your assistance on this case.”
She smiled frostily at Dimmock ,“You weren’t supposed to call him today of all days.”
Dimmock blanched. He had heard Miss Smith was not exactly a warm and fuzzy person. But then, no warm and fuzzy woman, no ordinary woman would survive a relationship with someone like Sherlock Holmes, now would she?
“I know, I know,” he whispered desperately to Violet as Sherlock went to hail a cab. “When we found the body, I was at a complete loss.”
“If we’re late,” she stood ramrod straight, arms crossed, “DI Lestrade will petition to have you demoted to meter-maid, do you understand?”
“Yes, of course,” Dimmock felt like he was receiving a dressing-down from one of his old primary schoolteachers. “Apologies… uh, tell Greg and Molly all my best!” he called after her as she turned on her heel and walked towards Sherlock.
“I’ll do no such thing,” she shouted at him coldly over her shoulder just as a cab pulled up.
Sherlock opened the door and Miss Smith gracefully slid inside. Sherlock followed, slammed the door, gave the address to the cabbie and shut the glass partition between them .
Once the cab started moving though, Violet ceased being “Miss Smith.”
“If we’re late, Molly is going to kill us both.” She hissed as she took of her gigantic sunglasses, her hazel eyes narrowed at Sherlock.
Dimmock did not know how correct he was. Violet, of course, was no ordinary woman.
For starters, she wasn’t even British.
And her last name was not Smith.
She had been hiding in plain sight for seven, nearly eight years now in England after having the supreme misfortune of her boss believing she was the best person to bring overseas for an international convention just because she was fluent in German, Spanish and French… and she could read most people like a book…
… not as quickly or as accurately or in as much detail as the Great Detective, of course. No one could. But she was pretty damn good in her own right….
On the same day and year William Sherlock Scott Holmes had been born, she had been born in an American military hospital in Germany. Named Violet Jane Hunter, she lived the life of an American military brat, bouncing from base to base, primarily in Europe with a few brief stretches in America here and there. A few years later, her brother Michael had been born and the two of them had become inseparable.
Their bonds became tighter when they became orphans. First their mother, Vanessa Hunter, had been killed in a car accident. Later, their father, Major Anthony Hunter, had died under suspicious circumstances during Desert Storm. Violet only recently learned it was true, her father had been murdered.
The orphans were shipped back to Indiana to be raised by their stern but loving grandmother. Violet had grown up to become a criminal profiler for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She had been good at her job. Too good…when she just happened to look up from her Blackberry and located the traitor in their team, the man selling out their country, she very quickly got herself on the wrong side of some very powerful and heartless people. These people leaned heavily on their sources within the FBI to have Violet and her entire team burned while they were in England for a conference about international kidnappings. While Violet, her boss and the rest of her team were stranded in London with no money and no identity, their families were told they had all died in a plane crash over the Atlantic on their return flight.
Michael, now a renowned journalist for The New York Times, didn’t buy it. He started digging.
He got himself killed for his trouble.
Violet blamed herself for his death.
For a long time, she had also blamed herself for the apparent suicide of Sherlock Holmes. While she had been forced to live on the other side of the law, she did “freelance work” for the True IRA. Her contact “Ciaran” wanted her to spy on Sherlock Holmes because he was a pressure point for the ipso facto British government, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s frosty elder brother. But it didn’t take long for Violet to see that Ciaran, the doe-eyed Irishman, was actually dangerously and pathologically obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. Despite needing the IRA’s money and good will to prove her own innocence and to root out the real traitors, Violet ceased giving Ciaran critical personal information regarding the detective…
Good thing too, because Ciaran had really been Jim Moriarty.
When Moriarty committed the Crime of the Century in 2011, Violet and her FBI partner, Special Agent Steven Morgan immediately fled, diving into deep underground. They took shelter at their undisclosed bolt hole in Soho. No landlines, no wifi, no bank cards. Off the grid completely.
Moriarty found them anyway.
Under great duress, Violet gave Moriarty the names of the three people Sherlock Holmes loved. John Watson, of course, was a known entity. But Violet had lied, in order to protect Sherlock’s other best friend, the pathologist, Molly Hooper. Violet told the madman that Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, his batty old landlady, were the other two people Sherlock loved more than anyone else. The DI and the landlady stood a better chance against Moriarty than Molly Hooper. True, her gentle exterior concealed a spine of steel, but Molly did not have a police force at her command nor was her block of flats constantly under Big Brother’s surveillance.
Moriarty had thanked Violet, then viciously stabbed Steven to death. He attacked her, hit her head hard enough to give her a concussion then savagely assaulted her with intent “finish the job later.” He told her in his slithery sing-song voice : “Thank you, bless you. In a few days, when you see my pièce de résistance, my magnum opus, you will understand that it was possible all because of you.”
Too late, she realized what Moriarty intended to do to Sherlock and his three loved ones.
Needing to stay hidden, but driven to expose Moriarty and to save an innocent man, Violet bagged the knife Moriarty had used to kill Steven. Moriarty, in his excitement, had not worn gloves, so she had his fingerprints. Then she started the flat on fire to protect her identity.
She went to King’s Cross and put the knife in a locker for safekeeping. But she had passed out from her head injury when she tried to get a cab to take her to 221B Baker Street. She woke up in St. Bart’s just in time to see the news about Sherlock Holmes taking John Watson hostage and fleeing the police.
In a sad, sick twist of fate, the additional twist of the knife, Violet Hunter snuck out of the very hospital the same day John and Sherlock would sneak into it later… and the very hospital whose roof Sherlock would jump off …
Violet desperately tried to contact Sergeant Sally Donovan. Naturally she couldn’t just waltz into Scotland Yard, so she called and called and called, filling up Donovan’s voice mail, pleading, begging her to Call Back… Violet had no idea just how stubborn or prideful Donovan was… it would be months later before DI Lestrade would learn Donovan withheld information, all of Violet’s voice mails, that would have proved “Richard Brooks” had been responsible for abducting the American ambassador’s children, not Sherlock.
In the end, it didn’t matter… or so it seemed. Violet had been clear across on the other side of the city when Sherlock fell. She found out just like everyone else, through the news.
She, however, was one of the very few who thought it was murder.
After Sherlock’s “death,” she sought out her old boss, Section Chief Robert Carson, the man she affectionately called “Bear.” He found her a new persona. She rose from the ashes as “Miss Smith,” an unruffled, regal Englishwoman. Her ear for languages helped her master a proper English accent as well as using the correct British slang. She became the personal assistant to “Mr. Carruthers” (Carson’s false identity). She worked with “Carruthers” at the insurance agency he seemed to run. In actuality, it was a front for a money laundering business belonging to Jack Woodley, the actual traitor within the FBI.
Violet had known it was Jack when she witnessed him on the last day of the conference disregard the correct protocol on how to treat an English lord. She had also known this particular lord, Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, the Earl of Winchester, was about as vile and sadistic as they could get. She also knew Jack had treated him familiarly to tip him off that the American Feds considered him a Person of Interest regarding the Rouge.
Jack had been killing off all their team members one by one during her seven year exile. Soon, Violet and Bear were the last two agents alive.
So together, Violet and Bear worked gathering evidence to prove Jack’s wrongdoings while still investigating the Earl, trying to find something to pin on him…
In her spare time, plagued by guilt, Violet followed up on John Watson. Not to the degree she had spied on Sherlock. Just checking up on him, making sure he was OK. Making sure he was healing. Making sure no one else gunned for him… made sure his life stayed nice and quiet…
… But then Sherlock returned from his Great Hiatus…
… And then Moriarty, not to be outshined by the Great Detective, also came back.
Violet had been in Piccadilly the Day Moriarty Asked the World: “Did you miss me?”
It had been the second time in her life she had passed clean out.
And so Violet waited. Waited in trepidation for her path to inevitably cross again with Sherlock’s.
Which it did, nearly four months ago when Sherlock and John appeared at her office.
And fresh hell had broken loose.
Sherlock decided to take the case. Decided to once again take on Moriarty’s network, better known as Rouge Dirigé Liguecase or the Red Headed League, decided to finish what he started when he jumped off the roof at St. Bart’s…
Eventually Jack Woodley had been vanquished. Vanquished, meaning that she had shot him in the head multiple times after he had captured her and tortured her. Sherlock and John had of course found her and actually rescued her. But Violet was the one who shot Jack to death. Not only had Jack killed her entire team, which now included Bear, but he had helped torture her brother to death. Before Sherlock and John had arrived, he had gleefully showed her pictures. So she gladly pulled the trigger on Jack once Sherlock had freed her.
But the Earl remained a threat.
So did Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock, naturally, knew she was a fraud the minute he laid eyes on her. He also knew her life was in mortal danger. Not only had she pissed off the Rouge and the FBI, but also his big brother was very interested in her, interested in her secrets.
Which meant Sherlock was interested in her. He became so interested in her, he actually ended up… liking her.
As a person in her own right.
As his friend. A good friend.
He did not fancy her, as John claimed he did.
And it was all John’s fault he had to act like he fancied her anyway.
After Violet’s flat had exploded (courtesy of the Rouge) Violet and her Alsatian (a former police dog called Gladstone for some absurd reason…) had spent the night at 221B Baker Street. She had no other clothes other than what was in the two bags she managed to grab before her flat blew up. So she borrowed one of Sherlock’s huge t-shirts as pyjamas that night. She happened to be only wearing only the t-shirt when Mrs. Hudson walked in. Mrs. Hudson took one look at Violet’s bare legs and bed head and jumped to the utterly incorrect conclusion.
John mischievously egged Mrs. Hudson in her delusion before either Sherlock or Violet could recover enough to correct the poor woman. At that very same time, Mycroft had sent a message to Sherlock informing him that the disavowed federal agent had been remanded into his custody. She was to remain at 221B Baker Street until further notice.
And with that, a cover story was born. Or as Violet had put it: “The worst cover story ever.”
Except, it wasn’t. It worked.
People, the general public, actually believed a high-functioning sociopath was in a relationship with an ice-queen.
As Sherlock had said once: “People are stupid.”
And Violet had replied: “So stupid.”
But, here they were. In the back seat of a cab, after breaking the record for Quickest Resolution of a Murder Ever on their way to a wedding.
After Violet informed Sherlock Molly would murder them for being late, he absently murmured as he thumbed through his Smartphone, looking for a particular app, “Do calm down, my dear Violet. Molly will not kill us both.”
“You’re right,” Violet said, finding her compact in her handbag and clicking it open. Expertly touching up her face, making sure her freckles and her newest scar (a gift courtesy of Jack Woodley) were concealed by a layer of powder, she added “She’ll just kill you. She is still pissed off about Greg’s bachelor party.”
“Oh pah,” Sherlock looked up from his mobile, “The stag party was not my idea. John planned it.”
“Bullshit,” she hissed…
***
13 June 2015
Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper’s residence
Saturday evening
7:17 PM
“Thanks for keeping me company tonight,” Molly Hooper said, carrying a tea tray.
“Molly Hooper, what are you doing?” Mary Watson scolded the young woman as she jumped off the love seat to take the tray from her. She nearly tripped over poor old Toby, Molly’s cat in the process. “Go ‘way, kitty,” Mary said as Toby decided to rub up and down her leg.
“Honestly, you are all as bad as Greg,” Molly grizzled, although she seemed relieved Mary took the heavy tray from her. “I’m pregnant, not crippled.”
Violet had been behind her, carrying a tray full of sweets and snacks for them all to nosh on. “Molly, we’re supposed to spoil you, not the other way around. Do sit down,” she said in her best “Violet Smith” voice, a British accent no one had questioned for over seven years… until Sherlock called her out on it, of course.
Her “Violet Smith” costume was quite extensive. Her naturally curly dishwater blonde hair was religiously colored a soft chestnut shade of red that looked quite natural. If she had time, she straightened her hair but if not, she usually pulled back into a neat little bun at the nape of her neck. She had learned which cosmetics to buy and how to apply them so her freckles would stay concealed. She wore fake eyeglasses or enormous sunglasses to hide her hazel eyes.
She even drank coffee and cola and didn’t immediately brush her teeth afterwards so they would become slightly discolored. She fought against her American vanity but there had been times she almost broke down and scrubbed her teeth with peroxide so they would whiten again…
But of course, she’d had braces at age thirteen, which was one of the reasons why Sherlock had been able to deduce her actual nationality. However, he had helped her conceive a lie if she would ever be asked about her perfectly unnaturally straight teeth again:
“Tell them your mother was American. She was obsessed with orthodontia, as you Americans all seem to be, and that your father gave in because he tired of arguing with her.”
While Violet Hunter preferred t-shirts and jeans, Violet Smith dressed neatly, almost primly. For the Girls’ Night In with Molly Hooper, bride-to-be and mother-to-be, Violet wore a neat denim skirt, sensible brown sandals and a modest brown top. That would be Miss Smith’s idea of Casual for a Night In With the Girls.
Mary wore Capri slacks, a tank top and white Converse trainers. Molly, five months along now, wore a pretty blue maternity top, yoga bottoms and was barefoot. Neither Mary nor Molly wore make-up.
Violet felt overdressed and wished the Baker Street Boys would have taken her along when they took Lestrade out for his stag party…. But no girls allowed.
Molly had not been pleased that John planned a stag party for her fiancé. Sherlock, as usual, had not seen the point of having a party for Lestrade. But as John explained, they kind of owed Lestrade one. Lestrade had been more than a bit ratty when he learned not only had he not been invited to John’s stag party, but he had to bail John and Sherlock out of gaol. So after Molly gave in, John told Sherlock “We have to make this a good party. We really have to make it up to Greg, don’t we?”
Sherlock had of course replied, “Do we really?” but after being on the receiving end of John’s displeased glance, agreed to help plan and attend “George’s” stag party. Both Mary and Violet agreed to pamper Molly and keep her company while they were out carousing.
As Molly gratefully sank down into a comfortable leather armchair and as Mary poured the tea, Violet mused about the double lives all the women in this room led.
I wonder if I proposed we play Truth or Dare she thought. I bet every single one of us would choose Dare.
She could not lay her finger on it, but Mary Morstan Watson was no sweet, mild-mannered nurse. When Sherlock had been abducted at the end of March, it had been Mary who figured out what Sherlock had deduced and what caused him to run straight into the lion’s den without bringing John or Violet or even Lestrade along for back up.
Also, John had insisted Mary accompany Molly when the pregnant pathologist offered to mule the information Violet had complied over the years about Jack Woodley and the Rouge to Mycroft. But it just didn’t seem like John had wanted Mary to go with Molly so she would also enjoy protective custody…. He had acted like he wanted Mary to protect Molly. As if she could do a better job than MI-6.
So when Jack Woodley appeared out of the blue last May, looking for her, Violet had taken a desperate chance, a shot in the dark. After sending an SOS text to Sherlock and telling Molly to go to the ladies’ room and stay there until Mary fetched her, Violet asked Mary for help…
… in Russian.
Mary had understood.
“Mary, I’m not your enemy,” Violet had told her and meant it.
But she certainly hoped Mary wasn’t her enemy.
They had accompanied Sherlock and John to Scotland shortly after John and Violet had retrieved Sherlock from the Rouge’s clutches. There had been confirmed Moriarty sightings, so of course Mycroft had asked (ordered) Sherlock to go at once.
While they got along during the trip and actually worked quite well together, Mary and Violet also eyed each other warily, trying to figure the other out. But they could never talk privately. Sherlock and John masterfully kept the two women apart. If they were alone together, it was for never more than five minutes at a time.
Violet also had the feeling Sherlock found the whole subterfuge hilarious.
Molly, on the other hand, was no laughing matter.
Lestrade was not the father of her child.
Sherlock was.
Neither John nor Violet knew quite what had exactly happened between Molly and Sherlock, other than the obvious end result. The only reason the pair of them had confirmation of her baby’s paternity was because Sherlock had told them. Blurted it out in a drug-induced haze, actually. Not only had Sherlock managed to get himself abducted by the Rouge, but he had managed to get himself reacquainted with cocaine and freshly addicted to heroin. Jack Woodley had forcibly injected Sherlock with a dangerous mix of cocaine and heroin in order to keep him placated. By the time Violet and John had found him, Sherlock had been on the tail end of his high, ready for the crash. The agitation and paranoia had already set in by then. Confused and disoriented, he confessed he was the father but Molly had decided he wasn’t to be involved.
His words still haunted and hurt Violet…
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?..
They’ll take her John, they’ll take her, they’ll hurt her, hurt both of them. 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…
The fear, the actual anguish in his voice had been palpable. The drugs had stripped away the detachment, the disregard for the sentimental and for the weak.
She still heard his delusional ranting and raving while he had been suffering withdrawal in her dreams. Dreams, not nightmares. Not the most pleasant of dreams to be sure. But they served to remind her there was a good man with a greater heart hidden deep beneath the layers of cool logic and deductive reasoning and icy reserve…
… really, really deep down.
She lived with the man. She also had to admit he could be such an… ass at times.
Most of the time, really.
She had left the ringer on her mobile on. She just had a feeling she was going to a get a call, as her old boss and friend would say, her “spidey sense” was tingling…
Tonight is going to be a shitstorm she thought as she took a dainty sip of tea, heavily sugared.
She hated tea but had learned to choke it down. When in Rome…
“It’s so lovely you two came over to keep me company while the boys are out,” Molly said. “Can’t really have a proper Hen’s Night,” she unconsciously ran her hand over her belly, a round firm little ball underneath her maternity top. “And most of my old friends from primary school and uni are all scattered all over the country so it’s not really easy for them to come visit. But when they do, they want to go absolutely crazy because they’re free from husbands and kids and jobs and well… I just don’t care much for clubs and whatever. I just feel bad if you are all bored. I’m rather dull company these days.”
“Bored?” Violet said incredulously. “This is a welcome relief. Do you know what that… that… madman brought home earlier this week?”
“Eyeballs?” Mary guessed.
“Kidneys,” Molly offered but quickly added “But he didn’t get them from me. I cut him off.”
“Fish,” Violet said.
Mary and Molly stared at her blankly. “Errm, fish?” Mary blinked.
“Like fish-and-chips? He actually bought dinner for once?” Molly asked.
Violet shook her head “Two days ago I went to a hot yoga class so I felt really sweaty and grubby afterwards. All I wanted to do when I got home was take a nice bath. But when I got home and went into the bathroom, I looked into the tub and saw… fish.”
“Fish…” Molly said, torn between laughing and frowning. “Living fish?”
“As in,” Mary made a fish-face with her lips “Fishies. Swimming about?”
“Oh yeah… but that wasn’t the worst part…”
***
11 June 2015
221B Baker street
Thursday evening
5:17 PM
Violet Hunter stared down at the tub in horror as several pretty orange and black koi fish circled around and around in the bathtub.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she grumbled, feeling her yoga clothes sticking to her sweaty body.
She did an about-face, stalked out of the bathroom, stood in the hallway and shrieked at the top of her lungs “SHERLOCK! WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL???”
Gladstone (the loyal and beloved yet extremely lethal Alsatian) meanwhile had trotted past Violet and made a sharp turn into the bathroom, his black nose twitching. Soon there was the sound of splashing and barking.
“Oh shit!” Violet cried, turning too late to try to stop her dog. But Gladstone already zipped past her, a big orange-and-black fish flopping vainly in the dog’s powerful jaws.
“NO!” Violet yelled at her dog as she gave chase. “Nonononononononononononononnono!” She ran after him through the lounge, jumping over the coffee table, on and off the sofa, around Sherlock and John’s chairs, chased him out of Sherlock’s bedroom after the dog had dribbled fish blood and fish guts all over Sherlock’s nice duvet. She ran through the lounge again, up the stairs to John’s old room, back down again and managed to corral the hound into the kitchen.
The entire time she had yelled at the dog:
“Stone, NO.”
“Bad dog, bad dog!”
“Drop it, drop it!”
“Stoppen, stoppen!”
Sherlock, meanwhile, stayed in his chair the entire time, placidly reading.
After Violet managed to shut Gladstone into the kitchen she stood in front of Sherlock, hands on hips, tapping her foot.
Sherlock flicked his eyes up at her. “Oh,” he said casually, turning the page of his book. “When did you get home?”
Violet ripped the book out of his hands. “Why the FUCK are there fish in the bathtub?”
“It’s an experiment.”
“Well, my dog is eating one of your experiments.”
“Why is he eating my fish? He has dog food. Those fish were expensive!”
“HOW IS THIS MY FAULT?”
“Well, I did shut the bathroom door so he wouldn’t get in there, didn’t I?”
Sherlock clambered out of his chair mere seconds before Violet lunged for him. “You did say,” Sherlock attempted reasoning with his livid flat-mate, “you didn’t have a problem with me continuing with my experiments in the flat as long as I didn’t bring human body parts home. Now, koi fish aren’t human body parts, are they?”
Violet threw his book at him. He ducked. “John never had a problem with my experiments.” He ducked again as Violet lobbed his cup of cold tea at his head. “Now you are just being childish.”
“I am going to kick your ass,” Violet announced, darting around Sherlock’s chair to get to him.
“You’re not going to win this,” Sherlock said, his dressing gown flapping behind him as he sidestepped to avoid a punch she just threw at him. “Your kickboxing will do no good,” he told her haughtily. “I can predict every hit and kick you plan on making.”
“You’re right,” Violet said, her hazel eyes darting all over the place until they locked on their target. “I’m just going to phone your mother.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Too late he realized he had left his mobile on the big table in the lounge.
Violet shot him a wicked smile and bolted towards the table. Swearing, Sherlock climbed over his chair to stop her. She snatched up the mobile, but he grabbed her around the waist and picked her up clean off her feet. She clasped the mobile to her chest as she kicked wildly. “Let me go, put me down!”
“Give me my bloody mobile!” He grabbed her wrist, squeezing so she would drop it, his other arm still wrapped around her waist as she flailed around.
She dipped her head down and bit his arm. Hard.
“OW!”
He dropped her right on her backside.
The mobile slipped from her hand and skittered across the floor.
Sherlock and Violet both looked at each other. Then they both dived for the mobile.
Sherlock grabbed it first, but Violet tackled him, pulled his hair.
“OW! Stop fighting dirty!”
“How else is there to fight?”
“Well, it’s not fair,” he whined as he wrestled her, trying to pin her to retrieve his mobile. “You know I won’t hit back because you’re a femal-OW! STOP THAT!”
She had pulled his hair again, wouldn’t let go this time.
So he grabbed the bun at the nape of her neck and gave it a solid yank.
“OW!” she squealed “You son-of-a-bitch!”
Sherlock wriggled away from her, got to his feet and ran for the door. “Well, you’re always the one saying how chivalry is dead-” he ducked again as a vase came hurtling towards him, smashing against the wall. “Yes, well…”
He flung open the door and fled for his life.
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson cried out as Sherlock ran down the stairs past her, barefooted, wearing only his pyjamas and dressing gown. “What is going on, what is all that crashing about?”
“Not now Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled behind him.
Violet was hot on his heels. “Pardon me, Mrs. Hudson,” she gasped out, barely remembering to use her British accent. Then she yelled “YOU COME BACK HERE AND GET THOSE BLEEDING FISH OUT OF THE BATHTUB!” as she chased Sherlock down Baker Street.
In a quivery voice, Mrs. Hudson called after the happy couple, “Are you two having a domestic?”
Then she frowned. Fish? What fish?
“Oh dear,” she sighed, going up to 221B to investigate.
***
13 June 2015
Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper’s residence
Saturday evening
7:39 PM
“We were lucky the paparazzi weren’t around for once,” Violet Smith finished her story. “They would have had a field day.”
“What happened to the fish?” Molly asked while thinking Dear God my child’s father is a lunatic.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Violet said as Mary succumbed to giggles. Despite herself, Violet smiled and shook her head. “I think Mrs. Hudson called her magic elves because they were gone when Sherlock and I came back. Sherlock sulked for the rest of the night. The bathroom still reeks of fish though,” Violet made a face. “So, truly, Molly, I’m OK with boring.”
Her mobile vibrated.
She took it out of her skirt pocket and looked at the Caller ID.
Sherlock Holmes.
Oh no…
“Yes?” she said a bit impatiently, expecting to hear Sherlock’s baritone on the other end.
Instead was a wavering tenor voice, “Um, is this Violet Smith?”
“Yes, how can I help you?” Violet closed her eyes, feeling Molly and Mary staring at her, silently asking her what was going on. She shook her head and shrugged.
“Well, we were given your mobile number as a contact number. We need you to come fetch your man and his mates. As soon as possible. They’re, um, all rather pissed. And they won’t come down,” the young man on the other side of the call said regretfully.
“What do you mean, won’t come down?”
After the young man explained himself, Violet put her fingers to her forehead, started rubbing. “Right, yes. Of course. We’ll be there shortly. I am so so sorry. Thank you for your discretion.”
Violet opened her eyes and looked at the blonde and the ginger (well, auburn really) across from her. “Grab your handbags ladies,” she sighed.
Thirty minutes later, the trio arrived at the London Eye.
“So…” an unfamiliar hardness crept into Molly’s voice. “When you said, they won’t come down…” she pointed up at the massive Ferris Wheel.
“Ah, yes. Apparently they started drinking about three this afternoon. Got pissed at Greg’s favorite pub and um… yeah.” Violet crossed her arms, stared up resignedly at the tourist trap.
Mary covered her face. “This is mortifying.”
“Your boyfriend,” Molly glowered at Violet. “Got my fiancé smashed and they’ve riding around a Ferris Wheel for well over an hour now. Do you have any idea what it would look like if Greg got arrested for public intoxication? He could face an inquiry at his job.”
“Why is Sherlock getting all the blame, he doesn’t even drink that much! It could have been John plying them both with drink all day!”
“Oh this is mostly definitely John’s fault. He said Drunk Sherlock is hi-lar-ious,” Mary kept her face buried in her hand. “He probably thought it would be funny to have Drunk Sherlock try to do deductions from the top of the Eye.”
Actually, that would be really funny, Violet thought but kept that thought to herself. Molly looked positively murderous.
“I thought John would keep Sherlock and Greg in line?” Molly scowled.
Mary and Violet exchanged panicked looks. “Let’s go fetch the boys, dear,” Mary said, putting her arm around Molly.
“I’m going to kill the lot of them,” Molly promised.
“I know,” Mary said, shooting Violet another nervous look.
“And stop bloody coddling me!” she shrugged off Mary’s arm. “I’m pregnant, not handicapped!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Mary let Molly march ahead of her. She leaned over to Violet and whispered, “We’re going to a pub after this, right?”
“Oh God yes,” Violet said, “A thousand times yes.”
“Good,” her blue eyes crinkled up at Violet. “Glad to know you’re not my enemy.”
Violet looked down at the pavement, then at Mary. “I’m really not, you know.”
“I know,” Mary sighed. “Someday, you and I. We’ll come clean with each other.”
“Yes,” Violet agreed, “But today’s not that day.”
“No,” she looked up at the Eye again. “Why on earth do we put up with them?”
“In our own twisted way,” Violet looked heavenwards again. “We love them.”
“By the way,” Mary said when they started walking towards the Eye. “Your English accent is excellent, really good.”
“Thanks,” Violet said “So is yours.”
“Oh, thank you!” Mary said brightly.
They could have been complimenting each other’s shoes.
They caught up with Molly who was speaking to the Eye’s manager. Upon seeing them, the manager explained he didn’t call the police because he recognized John and Sherlock from the telly and he was a huge fan of the blog. Didn’t seem right when all it seemed was they were having a bit of fun. It wouldn’t have been a problem to let them ride all night, actually… except every time someone tried to ride with them, Sherlock would tell them their life stories.
Four people had left the ride in tears already. One threatened to sue.
After losing in Rock, Paper, Scissors, Molly was the one to call and convince the boys it was time to call it a night.
“Molly! Hi!” Lestrade said cheerily as he wobbled towards his irate fiancée. “Sorry, you’re mad, she’s mad,” Lestrade said to John and Sherlock, who were not in any better shape.
“Why?” Sherlock asked, confused. “We didn’t take you to a gentleman’s club. We were going to,” Sherlock explained to Molly, whose face got redder and redder with rage as he nattered on: “Ran out of time, actually, since we’ve been up there in the spinning thingy for the past… well, however long it took to finish John’s flask.”
“Sher up, Shutlock,” John slurred.
Molly swallowed her ire and said to Lestrade “Let’s just get you home, shall we Greg?”
“OK, Molly, my Molly, I love you, d’you know that?” He put his hand on her belly. “The both of you, I love both of you.”
Sherlock opened his mouth. Both John and Violet immediately bellowed “NO.”
Sherlock shut his mouth, focused on staying upright and not vomiting.
Molly, despite herself, had softened. She patted Lestrade’s hand, the one resting on her baby bump. “Yes, I know. Come Greg, let’s go home,” she helped Lestrade totter off, deciding to hail a cab instead of trying to squeeze everyone into Mary’s tiny car.
Meanwhile Mary was tending to John. Weaving on his feet, John said to his wife, “I’m gonna regret all of tonight’s decisions ‘morrow, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Mary said as she put her arms around John.
“You’re never gonna lemme forget this, are you?”
“No.”
“It’s Sherlock’s fault…”
“I know,” Mary led John to the car.
Sherlock looked at Violet with bleary eyes.
Violet folded her arms tight against her body.
“Hey…” he said, reaching for her.
She did a neat little pivot to completely avoid his touch altogether. Let him fall and face-plant onto the pavement.
“Rude…” he complained from the pavement as she walked away.
***
18 July 2015
London, England
Saturday afternoon
3:57 PM
“That was John’s fault,” Sherlock said, eyes back on his Smartphone. “Can’t possibly imagine why Molly would be upset with me.”
“Oh really?”
“John was the one who ordered the shots. And brought a flask of whisky.”
“You were supposed to stay sober.”
“Addict,” he mumbled. “Sobriety is a bit of a challenge.”
“You’re a narcotics addict. You can handle alcohol.”
“When I measure exactly how much I drink within a certain timeframe, yes, I can hold my liquor. When John is dumping additional shots of vodka in my drink while I’m in the loo, then orders some sort of shot called a ‘Flaming Dragon Snot’… Not… So… Much.”
“Whose idea was it to go to the fucking Eye?”
“John’s.”
“Liar.”
“Fine, it was mine. We just lost track of time.”
“Liar.”
“Fine, we were having fun. What’s wrong with that?”
“You made a thirteen year old girl cry, that’s what!”
“She was a snotty little toerag. Served her right to be taken down a peg.”
“She was thirteen, Sherlock. ALL girls are snotty little bitches at that age!”
The cab had started slowing down. Both Sherlock and Violet looked up at the hotel.
When the cab stopped, Violet said “Let’s go over the rules again.”
“I am not a child.”
“I’m still pissed off about the fish in the bathtub, by the way.”
Sherlock blew out a pent-up breath of annoyance “Fine. I am to be polite no matter how annoying people are. I am to only indulge in one glass of champagne as it goes straight to my head. I need to call Lestrade Greg instead of all the other names because I know it annoys him when I call him the incorrect name. I am not to show off. I am to keep my deductions to myself. I am to remember today is about Molly, not me.”
“OK,” Violet said, putting her sunglasses back on. “Come on, we’re really pushing our luck.”
Sherlock and Violet got out. Sherlock paid (Mycroft still hadn’t unfrozen Violet’s bank accounts out of pure spite) and stood, holding his arm out to Violet. She looped her arm through his. As if they hadn’t been arguing, as if they hadn’t just visited a crime scene and captured a murderer, as if they weren’t running dreadfully late, they elegantly strolled into the hotel like a proper couple. A nice, normal couple…
They passed a sign in the lobby that read:
Today’s Events:
Hooper/Lestrade Wedding
Conference Room B
4:30 PM