Chapter 57 - Long Term Hopes

Sherlock smiled as he gazed down at his over-emotional girlfriend, oblivious to the actress's day-dream about meeting his family and spending holidays with them.

"Oh. Hello," he said, dropping his cigarette into the candle holder and banding his arms around her.

He lightly kissed the top of her head, and met Violet's gaze when she tilted her head to look up at him. Violet's eyes were moist and Sherlock ruffled her already messy hair as he grinned broadly at her.

"What?" he asked, when he couldn't stand her wistful gaze any longer.

"Your mum's alive."

Sherlock's smile disappeared, and he hummed in acknowledgement.

"What's she like?" Violet asked, a little too enthusiastically for Sherlock's liking.

"Motherly," he answered vaguely. "Is there really any other kind?"

This time it was Violet's smile that faltered, and Sherlock knew he'd put his foot in it. Idiot!

"Sorry," he said softly.

Violet had straightened up, and dropped her gaze to Sherlock's bare chest. Bringing her hands from around his waist, she began to distractedly examine his shirt for the places where the buttons had been torn off.

"No, it's... don't worry about it," she mumbled. But her thoughts had predictably strayed to her own mother, and the woman's mysterious life. And death. After a moment's consideration, she said grimly, "I asked John about that letter from Copper Beeches."

All the sparkle in her eyes had been extinguished. Sherlock could've kicked himself.

"Yes," he responded, matching his tone to Violet's. "John told me about it as well. I didn't read it myself before—"

"—you burnt everything?" Violet finished for him, meeting his gaze again. "It was addressed to you. Hadn't you read it?"

"It was addressed to Mycroft. And no, I didn't read it. I'm sorry I destroyed it."

Violet exhaled deeply as realisation dawned. Dear Mr Holmes, the letter had stated. It had been addressed to Mycroft Holmes, not Sherlock Holmes!

"It doesn't matter," Violet said, dropping her gaze again. She explained to Sherlock how she had come to read only the first page, before fleeing his flat in disgust at having discovered the rest of the contents of the file. "I'd rather have it all destroyed. My dad is pretty cut up about my mum being in a mental institution all that time without us knowing. He hasn't said much about it, but he's stopped acting like a dick around me. Must mean something, I guess."

"Mmm."

John had outlined the details of the letter to Sherlock. Sherlock's heart had heaved in empathy for Violet, which was, in itself, a new experience for him. Empathy. The letter had stated that Violet's mother had taken her own life while in care in 2003. Violet had been fifteen years old at the time, and not aware that her mother had been alive for the previous ten years of her life.

"I just want to know why it was kept from us," Violet continued. "My guess is that it was my grandmother who was responsible. She was a bit of an overbearing type."

"We can find out, if you like..." Sherlock volunteered. "Of course, I won't research anything if you don't want me to," he quickly added.

"I don't know what to do about it yet."

Violet found it too upsetting to even contemplate investigating. She kept pushing away the idea that her mother had been alive all through Violet's childhood into adolescence. If her grandmother had been responsible for getting Therese Hunter sectioned, then she may have been the only family member to have this information. Violet's mum may have just fallen through the cracks in the system, forgotten and neglected. The family matriarch had died in 2001—two years before Therese Hunter was said to have taken her own life—possibly taking her secret to the grave.

"Just let me know if I can do anything," Sherlock stated, his eyes glistening with warmth.

He wanted Violet to know that she had him and all his expertise at her disposal. He was Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective, whose skills were sought after by Scotland Yard and Her Majesty's Security Services, not to mention governments abroad. He was pretty good at what he did. The best, if he had to admit it to himself. Modest? He really wasn't.

"I know," Violet replied, braving a smile. "It will be an effort emotionally, to delve into all that, and I don't know if I want to go there yet. Knowing what happened to her isn't going to bring her back. Just hold off for a bit, okay?"

Sherlock smiled agreeably, and drew Violet in for a hug. He rested his chin on top of her head, and made an effort to mentally file away all he knew about Therese Hunter and her stint in Copper Beeches. He was itching to get started on solving this particular mystery. It wouldn't be a difficult task at all, but he knew that his desire for answers had to take second place to Violet's need for time. This he could do; he could be patient for her.

As he held Violet close, threading his fingers into her hair, Sherlock felt a smug amount of satisfaction that he was learning. He could do this relationship thing. The major fuck-up had already happened, and he would never make those same mistakes again.

Sherlock felt the flutter of Violet's breath on his chest as she sighed in contentment. He continued to card his fingers through her hair until he felt that something was not quite right.

He drew back and exclaimed, "What the fuck happened to your hair?"

Violet looked up in surprise. "What?"

"Your hair. It's all..." Sherlock screwed up his face in distaste as he reached out and let a strand of Violet's hair run through his fingers. "Something."

Violet snatched her hair back. "I've got extensions in."

"You've what?"

"Hair extensions."

Sherlock carefully scrutinised the top of Violet's head, until she self-consciously placed a hand on her head and moved away from him.

"Stop it," she said.

"You've got more hair than you've had before," Sherlock stated, narrowing his eyes as he spoke. "It's thicker."

"That's the whole point."

Sherlock took a step toward Violet, prompting Violet to step back, maintaining a safe gap between them.

"Just let me look," Sherlock bid her with an arm outstretched. "It looks very much like human hair."

"It is," Violet replied. She kept enough distance between them to prevent Sherlock from touching her hair again.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his expression barely masking a feeling of horror. "It is?"

Violet quirked a brow in amusement. "Yes. How do you not know this?"

"You have human hair stuck to your head?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth gaped, then he held his hands out in front of him, looking at them as if they'd been contaminated. He quickly lowered them to his side and asked, his voice deepening, "Somebody else's hair?"

"Yes," Violet responded, biting her bottom lip to refrain from laughing. "Like a donor, or something."

"Like a donor? You mean you don't know?"

Violet couldn't believe they were having this conversation. She was aware that there were some basic facts in life about which Sherlock had little to no knowledge, because he deemed extraneous data as being irrelevant to him; it really shouldn't have come as a surprise to her. But the look of horror on his face was equally endearing and disturbing.

Sherlock continued to quiz Violet about the origins of her donated hair extensions. When she couldn't produce an acceptable and detailed response, Sherlock snatched up his phone and started researching hair extensions in earnest. Violet stifled a laugh when she saw Sherlock subconsciously wiping a hand on his coat, as if he had to rid it of germs.

Violet stepped past Sherlock and closed her bedroom window. The detective remained largely reticent except for the odd tut now and again as he read the results of his hair extension research. Violet set about searching her bedroom floor for something to wear. She didn't get very far when she was interrupted by a message alert on her phone.

Sherlock sank to the bed as Violet retrieved her phone from the bedside table.

"This is not good, Violet," Sherlock murmured.

Violet furrowed her brow as she read the message on her screen.

"Sherlock Holmes," she sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"What?" he asked, his eyes still glued to his own screen. "You really should've done your research."

"I just have to check what's going on," Violet stated, ignoring Sherlock's remark, and dropping her phone back onto her bedside table.

Violet tightened her dressing gown sash, then reached for the door handle.

"Won't be long," she called back upon swiftly exiting her bedroom.

On hearing the door click shut and Violet's footsteps descending, Sherlock looked up in confusion. What had just happened then? He rewound the last lot of sound bytes he'd heard but not processed and realised that Violet was commenting on something else entirely.

Once he'd retrieved the visual image from his Mind Palace to pair with Violet's audio file, he reached the conclusion that her remark was in response to reading something on her phone. He immediately grabbed Violet's device and checked its screen. Violet had left open the last message she'd received from Spencer. Sherlock read, only half-interested in its contents.

Pap across the street.

What's that got to do with me, Sherlock thought, immediately dismissing whatever Violet's concerns were as he replaced her phone. He continued reading his own screen. Some of this hair comes from the floor of hair salons, he thought to himself. And from people rummaging through rubbish bins for the hair discarded from brushes. Good God, Violet! But she was right; there was an entire industry surrounding the supply of hair for beauty salons around the globe. And with any kind of market, there was also a black market, and with that, the opportunity for exploitation.

"Right," Violet said breathily as she quickly re-entered her bedroom. Untying her sash, and dropping her robe to the floor, she added, "We'll have to be quick."

Sherlock eyed his girlfriend's nude form and slowly rose from the bed. "Are you joking?" he said slowly. "There's no way I'm going to be able to perform. It's only been fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes at the most."

"What?" Violet asked, as she reached for a lycra number hanging from the open door of her wardrobe. She regarded Sherlock's wrinkled nose and boyish pout before realisation dawned. She chuckled lightly while continuing to dress. "I don't want to have sex right now—"

"Oh, thank God for that."

"But you have to get dressed so we can leave."

"Why?"

Violet busied herself pulling on her sports leggings and jogging bra.

"Because there's a photographer across the road," she replied, bending down to rummage through her clothes on the floor for a sweatshirt.

"So?"

"He's not even bothering to look discreet," Violet added, finally retrieving the item she was looking for. "Come on, Sherlock," she bid the immobile detective. "Get dressed."

Sherlock made no moves to add further clothing items to his current outfit of boxers, gaping shirt and coat. He placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes in defiance.

"What's the presence of a photographer across the road got to do with us?" he asked Violet, fixing her with a challenging glare, which was a bit ineffective while the sweatshirt was covering her head.

Violet pulled her arms through the sleeves, and told Sherlock that the paparazzo was probably waiting to get a photo of Violet Hunter's nightclub pickup. Sherlock scoffed at the notion, further commenting that the general populace would not be interested in such happy snaps.

"The general populace," Violet began, her brow furrowed as she now searched the mountain of washing for a pair of socks that matched, "was interested in a blurry photo taken in a nightclub. They more than likely want to get a glimpse of my tall, dark, and handsome stranger. Especially if I took him home and had my way with him."

"Why do people care?" Sherlock muttered. He looked down at his shirt and tutted. "And what am I supposed to do about this?"

Violet glanced up and raked her eyes over the hint of bare chest beyond Sherlock's gaping shirt before the detective began to shed his coat, and then the offending shirt.

"I've got a stapler," she volunteered.

"Stapler! I'm not stapling my shirt together," Sherlock complained, holding the shirt in one hand as he looked about the room. "Don't you have a sewing kit?"

"I do—one of those little travel ones, but I can't sew."

"I'm not asking you to sew. I'm quite skilled in vascular suturing, so I'm pretty sure I can tackle five buttons."

"You'll have to find them first."

Sherlock sighed deeply, then shut his eyes. The detective-genius projected a slow motion clip on one wall of his Mind Palace, of Violet ravishing him, and tearing open his shirt in the heat of passion. One - two, went the first couple of buttons. Three - four - five, pinged the remaining three. Sherlock followed their trajectory in his mind's eye.

Violet watched in interest as Sherlock opened his eyes again, then stooped to retrieve one button next to the bedside table, another from underneath the bed, and one closer to the door.

"How'd you do that?" she asked, staring up at him with wide-eyes.

"Because I'm clever," he replied automatically, and then stood in smug satisfaction at hearing Violet's tiny intake of breath. Closing his hand over the Mother of Pearl buttons, he murmured, "Three will do." Sherlock realised that tucking in his shirt would hide the fact that the last two buttons were missing. "Sewing kit, plea—"

Violet had spontaneously hugged him, and held him fast as she gushed, "I missed you being clever."

Sherlock smiled to himself, as his arms snaked around Violet's tiny waist. He'd missed this just as much—hugging at inappropriate moments, and the over-emotional responses in appreciation of his talents.

"I've never stopped," he replied.

#

Sherlock was pacing. His living room carpet as always took a beating as his treads threatened to wear it thin. He'd sorted through mail, checked emails, boiled the kettle several times without actually making tea, and then eventually sat down in his armchair, drumming his fingers agitatedly on the armrest.

Where is she?

Did he dream up the last twelve hours? Being back in Baker Street among all his things, his rooms and the air of a very absent Violet, he could easily have convinced himself it was only his imagination—the club, the car journey to Crouch End, this morning in her bed. He had made the mistake of showering and putting on fresh clothes once he'd returned home. Now he couldn't even smell Cleo de Thebes on his person.

They had parted company three hours ago.

He hoped she was all right. She had left her flat power-walking at first, to give the single paparazzo time to snap a couple of photos, stow his camera, and mount his bicycle to take off after her. What interesting snaps the photographer could take while he followed Violet jogging around Elthorne Park, Sherlock had no idea. The actress was going to take the long way around, as she usually did, ending her route at the boxing club. She would usually do circuit training in the club, or join in on one of the bootcamp drills. Surely the paparazzo would realise there was nothing interesting in Violet Hunter's Saturday morning routine. There was no take-home lover this time round.

Sherlock had exited her flat via the back laneway, and walked a block and a half until he could catch a cab.

The detective didn't quite agree with Violet's decision to sneak in and out of each other's residences. What business was it of anyone's, anyway, and why should they care what morons wrote about them? Violet had told him that she didn't want this for them, that what they had was special, and she didn't want anyone thinking that their relationship was spawned out of a seedy nightclub encounter. Sherlock gently reminded his girlfriend that their first ever kiss took place in a pub in Shoreditch.

Violet reassured Sherlock that she would visit him later, and that they had plenty of time to work out what they were going to do. But first she would go for a jog, to lure the photographer away from her flat, and in the early afternoon she had planned to go shopping with Mandi and a stylist friend for a new outfit for a 'thing' Violet had to attend tomorrow. Sherlock had stopped listening at that point.

Sherlock's heart skipped and he stood up quickly at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Had Mrs Hudson let Violet keep her front door key, the same privilege she had afforded John? The heavy footfalls on the staircase told Sherlock it was the good doctor, and not his lover who was about to grace him with his presence.

"John," he stated, sinking back into his armchair.

John Watson strode in, beaming, holding out a photo he'd printed from the internet. He handed it to Sherlock, and barely containing his excitement, he asked, "It's you, isn't it?"

Sherlock gave the printout a cursory glance before handing it back to John.

"Clearly."

It was the same image Violet had found during her own Google search in the morning.

John sat down in his old chair opposite Sherlock and leant forward, his expression bright and eager.

"Mary noticed. She said 'They're Sherlock's hands!'"

"Nice observation," Sherlock drawled disinterestedly. Of course it would've been Mary who noticed such detail. Obvious. The detective rested his elbow on the armrest, elevating his hand, and tapping his index and middle fingers alternately against his thumb in an air of irritation. He knew it was unreasonable to feel anxious about Violet's absence. It was a completely moronic over-reaction. But his stomach continued to churn uncomfortably, as if he and Violet were going to be separated, again, for an indefinite period.

"So she's..." John began, twisting around in his chair to glance back towards Sherlock's bedroom, "She's not here then?"

"No. I don't know where she is."

"Oh," John replied, deflating a little. His momentary bright demeanour had become more subdued as he took in Sherlock's current disposition. "It wasn't a reconciliation type of ... ah ... meeting then?"

Sherlock stopped his tapping and frowned at John.

"Of course it was."

"So you're back together then?" John asked, a little glimmer of hope tugging at his eyebrows and raising them to the ceiling.

"Yes."

"Good. Great. Fine. I'm very happy for you both." John attempted a warm smile, but Sherlock's cold exterior failed to thaw. "And you're ... waiting for her?" John prompted.

"Yes, John."

Sherlock took to staring into the unlit fireplace when an epiphany struck the doctor. John cleared his throat first before he spoke. "Was she here with you this morning, when I rang?"

"We weren't here," Sherlock replied tonelessly. "We were at her place."

A tiny smile graced John's lips. "Didn't occur to you to let me know that fact?"

"It was Violet's idea," Sherlock replied a little too quickly, as he met John's gaze. "She wanted to surprise you."

"You're bloody hopeless, the pair of you," John replied, in mock irritation. "So what's she up to then?"

An uncomfortable pressure built up in Sherlock's chest, and he stood and began pacing again, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know. She left to go for a jog so the photographer would follow her, allowing me to leave her flat discreetly."

"Photographer?" repeated John. "As in paparazzi?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "It's been..." He paused to glance at his watch. "...just over three hours now. She muttered something about going to the shops."

"Shopping?" John asked, rising from his and glancing at his watch. "Well she may be another hour yet. Hasn't she texted you or anything?"

Text? Sherlock's mind repeated. He mouthed, Phone! His eyes widened and he immediately patted his trouser pockets. But his frantic search and impending panic attack were interrupted when the sound of the front door clicking shut reverberated up through the stairwell, followed by light hurried footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock found himself not daring to breathe until he saw the surreal image of Violet breezing into his living room.

"John!" the actress exclaimed, upon sighting Sherlock's former flatmate first.

As they embraced in front of Sherlock, the Consulting Detective realised that there had been a couple of months where some sort of close friendship had developed between the pair that he had not been a witness too. It seemed odd to see his best friend and his girlfriend acting so familiar with each other.

Violet and John exchanged a look that didn't escape Sherlock's attention. His throat tightened in response. He knew what that look meant. John's expression was almost gleeful on Violet's behalf. So Sherlock and Violet had reconciled. This was exactly the kind of reaction and attention Sherlock had wanted to avoid. It was his sole reason for declining John and Mary's invitations to dinner with Violet since he'd returned from abroad. A cosy foursome. How completely contrived and irritating that would've been, having John staring at them across a candlelit table decorated with napkins and odd glass spheres, as if the doctor were some kind of love-arbiter.

"Dinner," John bid Violet in a low voice, as if he'd just read Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock's eyes widened by degree, as Violet looked over at him, affection glazing her eyes. She graced him with a sweet smile, before turning her attention back to John.

"I'll call you," she assured John, another meaningful look exchanging between the pair.

Sherlock managed to stifle an eyeroll. I'll call you, meant that Violet would attempt to have words with Sherlock, to convince him that now that they were a couple, they were under strict obligation to do coupley things... like eating a meal with another couple. Why? For Christ's sake, Why?

"Why didn't you reply to my texts?" Violet was asking him, as she crossed the rug toward him.

Wait a minute, Sherlock thought, as Violet wound her arms around him, and pressed her body maddening closer to his. Where did John go? The doctor was no longer there. He'd just vanished in an instant.

Sherlock furrowed his brow at this mystery as Violet looked up at him expectantly.

Oh! Sherlock thought. The doctor must've made his excuses to leave the couple alone, and had bid Sherlock a goodbye while the detective was hiding out in his Mind Palace. That must be it. Not a mystery after all. In fact, it was something that had happened on several occasions in the past.

"My phone," Sherlock said in response to Violet. "I think I left it in my jacket pocket. It's in the bedroom."

"The bedroom?" Violet repeated, her pupils darkened by desire. "How convenient. Let's go look for it together."

#

END OF PART 1