They didn't. The next morning John sighed as he saw that the front page picture was of himself pushing Sherlock and Violet toward a cab. Since the paparazzi had seemed intent on following them, they'd opted out of the Thai and had instead returned to Baker Street. They'd parted ways in the foyer.

Sipping his coffee, John glanced over into the living room. Violet had brought her cello up, and was now completely focused on playing duets with Sherlock. Where she'd gotten another bow, John wasn't sure but had the feeling Sherlock had something to do with it.

He had been surprised by the threads of friendship that seemed to have sprung between the two in the past forty eight hours. All John could think was that this time would turn out better than the encounter with Irene Adler had.

The melody came to an end, and both musicians laid their bows down, signaling the end to their impromptu concert.

"I never had a chance to say thank you," Violet commented. She kept her eyes on the strings of her cello. She carefully set it in its case. "I would have had no chance figuring this out without you. So, thank you."

"Who said I was done yet?" Sherlock asked, putting his violin away. "There's still the matter of the note left in your hotel room."

Tilting her head, Violet frowned as she accepted a cup of tea from John. "What are you talking about?" she asked. "Are you saying that has nothing to do with Alice Rucastle? I thought it was the Rucastles trying to get me to leave London."

"How would they have known where you were, let alone that you were even in London," Sherlock pointed. "From what you've told me, there's only one person who knew of your intention to come to London."

Her hands tightened around her cup. "My father."

"When I was looking into the case yesterday, I took the time to examine the note," Sherlock explained. "The paper itself is of high quality stock, the kind that a lawyer would use. The blood was actual human blood, and I'd seen it before."

John frowned. "From one of your other cases?" he asked. "Which one?"

"The fourth pip."

"Moriarty," John realized. "Oh, bloody- Yes, of course, he'd be involved in some way, wouldn't he."

Violet had a confused look on her face. "You do realize I don't understand what you're talking about, right?" she asked.

Sherlock looked to John and waved a hand. Taking a deep breath, John began to explain the case he'd titled The Great Game. The further into the case he got, the more hunched Violet's shoulders became. By the end, she was holding her head in her hands, half curled into a ball.

"I take it you know something about this," Sherlock stated.

"I-I saw an email of my father's from Janus Motors, " Violet admitted. She ran her hands through her hair. "What am I supposed to do now? I can't go back home. My father has ties to a criminal genius." She gave a short laugh. "How many girls can say that? But where can I go that I won't be found? I don't want any part of this."

Try as hard as he could, John could think of no answer. "You seem to have avoided Moriarty when you left the hotel abruptly, as you haven't been bothered since you came here," Sherlock responded. "And there have been many instances, I have no doubt, he could have made a move against you."

"I can't stay here," Violet answered. She reached down and brought up one of the newspapers. She threw it at Sherlock. "If he didn't know where I was, he does now."

"Then, we will have to put you somewhere he won't find you."

~*~

Several weeks later, Mrs. Hudson carried tea into the flat. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, bored with the world once again. The landlady sighed. "I do hate to see him like that," she confided to John, who was working on his blog.

"Yeah, I do to," John responded, accepting the tea. "At least when Violet was here, he had someone to play music with."

"Its a shame she had to leave so quickly," Mrs. Hudson said. "Here one day and then gone the next. I don't know how young people do it."

John forced a smile until the landlady left the flat. He thought back to when Sherlock had handed Violet into the hands of Mycroft Holmes. John smiled, remembering the brief moment when he thought Violet was going to knock both Holmes out.

His smile faded again. As it turned out, Mycroft had been aware of her father's connections to the London criminal network, which had been part of the reason he'd picked her up that one time to question. It hadn't taken much convincing for him to set the wheels in motion to change Violet's identity completely.

Neither he nor Sherlock were given the clearance to know where Violet had been ultimately sent, and Violet had been forbidden from communicating with them. John hadn't written a word of this case, knowing it could potentially cause a great deal of harm.

"I almost forgot," Mrs. Hudson said, coming back and pulling John out of the past. This time she held a small package. "This came in the mail. Its certainly come a long way."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, taking the package from her. As the landlady had noted, there were several different postmarks and postage stamps on the brown paper. Setting aside his tea, John opened the package.

A familiar wooden box was revealed from the paper. "Sherlock," John said, seeking to get his flatmate's attention. He stood up as he opened the box. "You're going to want to take a look at this."

Twisting around, Sherlock's eyes narrowed as soon as they saw the box. In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet and reaching for the box. It was Sherlock's hand that lifted the braided length of chestnut hair from inside. The two men stared at the shining hair.

"Well, that's unexpected," John stated, breaking the silence that had formed. He looked back down. "There's a note."

"Actually, I estimated there was a ninety nine percent chance that Mycroft would insist on Violet cutting off her hair," Sherlock responded, examining the hair closer "It was the most identifiable part of her appearance."

"'Thank you for what you have taught me,'" John read aloud from the single, small card that had been hidden under the hair. "Why am I not surprised she would ignore Mycroft's rules about getting in touch with us?"

"She's teaching," Sherlock stated. "That's why she includes the word taught when a simple 'thank you' would have been all that's necessary. She clearly wants us to know that she is safe." He laughed. "She's one of the few people I've ever met who had the will to stand up to my brother."

"I will miss her," John said, watching his flatmate's reaction carefully. "It was nice, you know? Having a pretty face around."

Sherlock made no reaction to his words. "There's been something I've been meaning to test with regards to hair," the consulting detective stated. Carrying the braid of hair to his chemistry equipment, he began to search through his beakers.

John sighed and set the note back in the box. He placed the box safely on their shelf. As he did, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blowtorch. Spinning around, John exclaimed, "Sherlock, you better not be burning that hair!"

Needless to say, the smell in the flat that day was not pleasant and John came very, very close to throttling his friend.