Ten minutes and a short walk later, the trio was seated at Angelo's. Angelo had escorted them to their table himself and complimented Violet on her appearance. John waited for the usual candle, but it didn't make an appearance.

It was only after they ordered -Sherlock even ordered, something which John nearly choked on his wine over- that the consulting detective leaned towards Violet. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "I don't care, but John is a very good listener."

Looking up from the napkin she'd been folding into different shapes, Violet frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Though you did an admirable job of washing your face with cold water, your eyes are still red from when you were weeping," Sherlock informed her. "As I said, John is a good listener."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm fine."

Sherlock regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Are you?" he questioned. "You've come rather far from your home, Miss Hunter. A circumstance which would cause normal young woman to feel a bit homesick by now."

As ever, John was amazed by his unemotional flatmate's ability to understand the human race. "Perhaps, if the 'normal young woman' had something to feel homesick for, that might be the case," Violet responded, leaning back in her chair. "It bothers you, doesn't it? Not knowing what I'm doing here."

"That would imply that your presence in my life makes a difference."

"Are you enjoying London, Miss Hunter?" John asked, int erupting their debate. "Have you found your adventure yet?"

The detective shot him an annoyed look. "You can call me Violet," the young woman at the table told him generously. "And the only adventure I've had so far is having my phone hijacked with a strange man calling, after which I was kidnapped and dropped off in a warehouse."

"Are you going to hold that grudge the whole time you're here?" Sherlock inquired. "You're not the only one its happened to."

"Yes, it happens almost regularly in my life," John volunteered with a chuckle. "We should form a club, Violet. Are Tuesday afternoons good for us to have our meetings?"

Violet laughed softly. "So, what do you do, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, changing the subject. "Do you go around London insulting people?"

"Yes, he does," John said even as Sherlock responded with a sharp, "No." Sherlock gave John an almost annoyed look before he continued, "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"Good for you," Violet responded. She sipped her wine. "What does a consulting detective do?"

The detective took on an almost bored look. "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is almost always, they consult me," he explained, repeating almost word for word what he'd said to John so long ago. "I solve their cases for them, and catch their criminals."

"I can accept that I've never heard of a consulting detective since you're the only one, but I find it hard to believe that the police would go to an amateur to solve their cases."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Think back to what I deduced about you, Miss Hunter. Is that the work of an amateur?"

Violet's face went blank and she looked down. "You were wrong, you know," she said.

"Wrong?" Sherlock repeated as though he'd never heard the word before. "What do you mean, 'wrong'?"

Lifting her head, Violet smiled. "I am not an amateur cellist," she answered, clearly delighted to have the upper hand for the moment. "Back in Chicago, I played in the city orchestra."

"So, why would you give up a career like that to come to London?" Sherlock asked, latching on to that information instantly.

Triumph fled from the woman's face at that. "Do you always take people out to dinner to get information from them?" Violet demanded defensively.

John cleared his throat. "All right, that's enough of that," he said, conscious of the looks being sent their way from the other patrons in the restaurant. "I did not come with the two of you to listen to you argue."

Almost rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned his attention to the window. "I'm sorry," Violet said after a long minute had passed. She ran her hand through her hair, in what John was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit. "Can I just say you are very irritating, Mr. Holmes?"

"That's the mildest thing anyone has ever said about me," Sherlock responded, turning his gaze back to her. He lowered his voice. "If you're in trouble, I can help."

For a moment, the only sound was of the low murmur of conversation around them. "I have to prove that my mother, Katherine Hunter, was murdered," Violet finally admitted. She laced her fingers together before she hid her hands under the table. "I think its because of something that happened to her on her trip to London, which was right before she was found dead."

"Your mother's dead?" John asked. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Were you close?"

That did make Sherlock roll his eyes. "Yes, we were, and thank you, John," Violet responded with a sad smile. "I appreciate that."

"Give me the details," Sherlock requested.

Shrugging a shoulder, Violet began, "In the States, my mother was a rather well known soap opera star. She married a lawyer, Alexander Hunter twenty six years ago and stayed married to him for five years. Then, they divorced and I grew up bouncing between-."

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "I don't need your entire life story, just the details relating to the case."

Angelo set their plates of food in front of them. John offered the man a grateful smile. "Four months ago, my mother called me and told me that she was going to London," Violet explained, picking up her fork. "She spent most of her childhood and teenage years in London, so while she'd never visited before, I didn't think anything of it.

"She was gone for about a week, and then she came back. All I got was a message saying she had something she needed to tell me and to come to her apartment. When I arrived, Mom was on the floor, not breathing. She'd been poisoned."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, completely ignoring the food that was in front of him. "What kind?"

Violet shook her head. "It wasn't just one poison. It was a cocktail of poisons. Arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide," she responded. Sipping his wine, John choked and Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "I also know that the poison was in the bottle of wine she'd brought with her from London, and its why the police wrote it off as a suicide."

"But you don't believe that."

"No, of course not! It doesn't make sense that she would commit suicide," Violet responded passionately. "Mom wanted to tell me something. Why would she kill herself before she did that? She also had an important audition the next day for a stage play, which would have been a big step in her career."

Sitting back, Sherlock considered the facts. Violet took the opportunity to dig into her quickly cooling meal. "Where did your mother go while she was in London?" the detective finally asked.

"I'm not sure," Violet admitted. "I didn't hear from her the whole time she was here. I did find some rather odd things when I cleaned her apartment out. I have them with me at the apartment- sorry, flat. I was hoping they would make sense once I got here."

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet. "Show me," he ordered before striding to the door.

Groaning, John took one final bite. "We better catch up to him," he told Violet, who looked rather confused.

"But the meal...who's paying here?" the woman asked, getting to her feet. She shrugged her bright red wool coat on.

"Its on the house," John said, waving at Angelo half in thanks and half in apology. "Sherlock did Angelo a favor a few years back. He's so grateful he gives Sherlock, and anyone with Sherlock, whatever they want."

"He didn't eat anything," Violet commented, looking back at Sherlock's untouched plate in confusion.

"Yeah, he does that."

~*~

Sherlock barely kept his impatience down as Violet unlocked the door to her flat. The woman led the way down, turning a lamp on as soon as she stepped foot in. There was only a bare amount of furniture that now decorated the flat: a small table half in the kitchen and half in the living space, a dark red sofa, and a bookshelf against one wall.

Violet knelt by a duffel bag that sat on the floor, half under the sofa. She unzipped it, and pulled out a small wooden chest. "This was hidden under my mother's bed," she said, holding it out to Sherlock.

Taking the object, Sherlock opened the lid. Raising an eyebrow, he lifted out a long, thick lock of chestnut brown hair. Without a word, he held it up against the woman's head. The hair was an almost perfect match.

"Its not yours?" John asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

"No," Violet said, shaking her head. "My mother's hair is dark brown. I don't know where that came from."

"Your mother may have dyed her own hair," Sherlock remarked, putting the hair back in the chest. "But that would imply she was hiding from something." He handed the chest back. "What else did you find?"

Getting up, Violet walked to a folder she had on the table. She carried it back. "They were just random newspaper clippings," she said, flipping it open. She held it out. "They were in her wallet."

Swiftly, Sherlock cast a quick glance over them. "Interesting," was all he said before he passed the folder to John. Scanning the half a dozen clippings, all John could see that connected them was that they all were about the sudden return of a philanthropist heiress by the name of Alice Rucastle. "Your mother's maiden name. What was it?"

The question made Violet blink. "Toller," she answered. "Her name was Katherine Toller."

Sherlock nodded once, as though he was filing the information away for later. "Anything else we should know about the case?"

"No."

As was his habit, Sherlock leaned in very close, making her lean back to get a little space. "There's something you're not telling me, though," he said. "Your father is a lawyer. You had a very nice job as a cellist for an orchestra. So why are you now low on funds?"

Paling, Violet tried to retreat, and ended up falling over a chair. Sherlock caught her shoulders, keeping her from making a painful collision with the floor. "You're afraid of something," the consulting detective said. "What?"

"I didn't come straight to 221 Baker Street when I arrived here," Violet told him. She swallowed hard. "I was staying in a hotel. The first night I was there, I received a threatening note. It warned me to leave London or sacrifice my life."

"And? What about it?"

"It was delivered to my room while I was sleeping. I woke up when the door closed, and I found the note on the pillow next to me," Violet explained. "I ran to the door, but when I looked out, I didn't see any one. That's when I actually read the note. It was written in blood. Or at least it looked like blood."

Sherlock let go of her abruptly. "I suppose its too much to hope that you kept the note," he said.

"Actually, I did," Violet responded, righting herself. She went into the kitchen and pulled a baggie from under the sink. She brought it to Sherlock. "I put it in a bag to protect it. I'm the only one who's touched it."

John gave a startled laugh. "You're keeping all of your evidence in different places? Why?"

"So if I lose one, I still have the others."

An amused smirk crossed Sherlock's face. "Well, then, we'll be in touch, Miss Hunter," he said. "I assure you John and I will have this case solved quite soon."

"Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring," Violet said as she followed them to the door. "But thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"One more question," Sherlock said, spinning around, just outside the door. "Did you ask your father?"

Taken aback, Violet stared at him. "What?"

"Did you ask your father why your mother came back to London?" Sherlock asked impatiently. Violet gaped at him. "Its not that difficult a question, Miss Hunter."

"I believe I told you my parents were divorced," Violet answered, looking confused. But there was something else in her eyes: caution. "They were barely on speaking terms. Why would my father know anything about what my mother was doing in London?"

"Miss Hunter, it does you no good to keep something from me," Sherlock told her. "As I've just demonstrated, I will discover whatever it is you try to keep to yourself. Your mother obviously left London with your father twenty six years ago. He may have valuable information as to what would bring her back here."

Violet breathed out. "When I brought the subject up after the funeral, my father told me to forget about it," she admitted. "He said London had never been anything but trouble to him. He...put a freeze on all of my cards when he heard that I was making my plans."

"How did he manage that?" John asked in surprise.

"I don't pretend to understand the legalities of it all," Violet said. "My father thought it would stop me, but it just made me even more certain there's something here I need to learn. Otherwise, why would he want to keep me away?"

"Why, indeed," Sherlock said. "Well, then,Miss Hunter if there's nothing else you'd like to try to keep from me, John and I will leave you now."

Violet tilted her head, frowning in thought. "No, nothing," she finally decided just as Sherlock huffed and started to leave. "You can go now."

John wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock made no reply to that. "We'll let you know when we find something," the ex-soldier made sure to tell Violet before he followed Sherlock. In the safety of the hallway, John finally asked what he'd been wondering since Sherlock had bolted from the restaurant, "Do you have a theory?"

"Twelve," Sherlock answered. There was a frustrated tone in his voice. "I need more data."

"I believe Violet when she says she's told you everything she knows."

"Oh, yes, she has. Finally," Sherlock said, going up the stairs two at a time. "Its enough to make a start."

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked he trailed behind into the flat.

With a leap, Sherlock landed on the sofa, sinking into a cross legged position. He reached over the arm and lifted up a laptop. John's laptop. "Silence will be lovely, thanks," the detective responded.

Dumbfounded, John looked over at the table where he could have sworn he'd left his laptop. He opened his mouth to object, but then, only sighed. He left Sherlock to his research and went to bed.

~*~

After all this time, John knew he should have been used to being woken up at odd times by his flatmate. But he really wasn't. So, when he saw that it was only four o'clock in the morning, and Sherlock was playing his violin, he jammed his pillow over his head.

His sleep had been disturbed enough, though, that he couldn't fall back asleep. So, after fifteen minutes of fighting, John admitted defeat and sat up. It was then that he noticed that Sherlock wasn't playing alone.

While much more muffled than the violin, a cello was being played in response to Sherlock.

For several minutes, John just sat on the edge of his bed, listening to his flatmate and neighbor fill the building with music. When the violin finally stopped, John pulled himself up and made himself ready for the day. He had no doubt Sherlock would be dragging him all over London in no time.

By the time he made it into the living room twenty minutes later, Sherlock was crouched on one of the armchairs, staring at the opposite wall. Over night, print offs had been pinned up in an order only apparent to Sherlock.

"Find anything?" John asked as he walked past. He wasn't expecting a response, so when he came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, he was astonished to hear Sherlock speaking.

"-no sign of the heiress," the detective was saying, his tone contemplative. "So where was she all that time? And why make such a big spectacle over her now? There's no obvious connection to a Katherine Toller, either-"

"Sorry," John interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

"Alice Rucastle," Sherlock said impatiently. "There is nothing in the media concerning her until four months ago, when apparently she appeared out of nowhere. How often does an heiress remain such a secret for so long? And why would she allow that secrecy to be destroyed now?"

"You think the answer to the case is with Alice Rucastle?" John asked, going over to the wall. He studied the printouts and the newspaper clippings supplied by Violet.

"Obviously. That is the name that brought Katherine Hunter here."

The sound of a woman clearing her throat caused both men to turn their heads. Violet, dressed for the day, stood in the doorway. "You wanted me, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, not looking in the least bit sleepy for being such an early hour.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, straightening his legs so that he was standing on the chair. He stepped down to the floor. "Your fingerprints, please. If whoever left that note in your room was stupid enough to leave his or her own prints behind, I must be able to differentiate it from yours."

He began to search the room. "Makes sense," Violet said, nodding as she stepped further into the room. She cast a quick glance around before focusing on John. "You were right. This is much worse than my place."

John chuckled. "I told you," he responded. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? That's about the only thing I'd trust to ingest in this flat, and that's only because I'm making it fresh. Sherlock won't have had a chance to corrupt it yet."

"Coffee would be great," Violet told him with relief. "No cream or sugar for me, thanks."

Setting his own cup down, John went into the kitchen to get it for her. "Here," Sherlock said, slamming two items on the table: an ink pad, and a sheet of blank paper. Violet flipped the pad open and pressed her pinky finger into the ink. "Let me. I don't want blurry prints."

"I am aware that would defeat the purpose," Violet said with a hint of irritation in her voice. She let Sherlock take her hand to get the prints just so. "I know how this works. This isn't the first time I've been fingerprinted."

Coming from the kitchen, John nearly dropped the cup of coffee he now held. "That sounds like a story," he commented, recovering himself.

"Not really. It was Spring Break. In Florida," Violet answered, glancing over at him. She smiled. "Stuff happens."

"Now it really sounds like a story." John set her coffee next to her so that she could grab it when Sherlock finished with her. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you know Sherlock wanted you? Did he text you?"

Violet looked at him in surprise as Sherlock released her hand. "No. I didn't give him my number," she said. Sherlock made a scoffing sound at that. "The music told me he wanted something from me, so I came."

Not the being the same level of music enthusiast he knew Sherlock and Violet were, John figured that there were ways of music communicating without the two having to say a word.

"Did Sherlock wake you up with his playing? I warned you he'd do that."

"No, I was already awake," Violet said, reached for her coffee. She didn't wipe the ink off her fingers, leaving several black smudges on the surface of the cup as she sipped the hot liquid. But John knew it wasn't the worst thing to have happened to the thing. "I told you I was a bit of an insomniac."

Sherlock was already busy comparing Violet's fingerprints to the ones he'd lifted from the paper. "Matching," the detective announced. "The person who left this note was clever enough not to leave behind his fingerprints."

"Well, he'd have to be clever, wouldn't he?" Violet asked. "I mean, an idiot wouldn't sneak into someone's room while they're there, and leave a note."

"That depends on how you would define an idiot," Sherlock said. He held the threatening note up against the light. "I need a lab."

"If you're headed to Bart's later, we can share a cab," John offered, checking the time. He had to be at surgery early this morning. "I have work today."

Violet glanced at him. "So, you're an actual doctor?" she asked. "You don't just follow him-" she nodded towards Sherlock- "all the time? I kind of got that impression when I scanned over your blog posts."

"That's what happens when you only scan something," Sherlock commented. "You miss important details."

"I mentioned it in one of the blogs I posted after I moved in with Sherlock," John explained.

"All right, I admit it I was distracted by the link over to the Science of Deduction," Violet said. She finished off her coffee as her words apparently reached Sherlock's brain and the detective turned to look at her. "So, is there anything else you need from me now? Anything I can do to help?"

The momentary flash of curiosity turned into the normal disdain Sherlock's face held for normal people. "There's nothing," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "If I have need of you, I'll phone Mrs. Hudson...or something."

"Or I can just give you my number and you can text me like most people do," Violet fired back. She snatched a pen and scrawled her number on a random piece of paper. John flinched, knowing Sherlock's hatred of anyone moving or touching his things, and Sherlock stared at her. She tossed the pen down. "If you decide you need me, text me."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared at her. "Yeah, we'll do that," John told her quickly, afraid of his flatmate doing or saying anything. "Thanks, Violet."

Waving her hand dismissively in imitation of Sherlock, Violet smiled and turned away. She walked out of the flat without another word.

"To the lab," Sherlock said decisively.

"When you put your clothes on," John reminded. "I'm not going out with you like that."

Glancing down, Sherlock rolled his eyes but went to his room. Breathing a sigh of relief, John went to find something to act as breakfast in the kitchen.