Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).
Pairings: developing Rose/Sherlock, deep Irene/Sherlock.
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.
Word Count: 1,804 words.
World/Story Setting: Slight AU. Inception concept. Future-fic. Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Journey's End and in Pete's World [Doctor Who]
Rating: T/PG-13. There will be cussing though.
Summary: Between moving on and letting go, Sherlock finds that it might be easier when there's someone to lean on.
Author's Note: Okay. READ THIS UP. I don't know if any of you are aware of the notion of Inception (one of the Leonardo DiCaprio's work) the film, but if you don't— you probably won't understand a few of the things I will mention. Inception is centred around the concept of dreams, and how a group of people dug deep into it. Now, I'm taking this WhoLock twist after the event happened in the film. So, since Sherlock will be closely portraying Dom Cobb (Leo's character), he and Irene (who carried the character Mal in the film) had a child, therefore an OOC is created. Unlike in the movie, they will only have one child together.
This story has been declared AU for various of reasons: (1) being the fact I've had Sherlock married to Irene. (2) They have a child together. (3) The fact I've decided to twist Inception into this. But, personally, I'd like to think I've grasped more-or-less 20% of the show's plot such as their characters, and the basics of plot. I'm not quiet sure how I'll pull it off, but let's just see, shall we?
I'd also like to note down that this story won't be in multi-chap. Perhaps it will be just as it is, a one-shot, or two-shot (or maybe, if I get excited enough and my brain's managed to pull off other ideas, a three-shot)— but so far, there's no planning on it being a multi-chap. So. Yeah. Meh. I honestly don't know if testing this theory of mine (this story) can match with your interpretation on how I see RoseLock, but I sure do hope you'll enjoy, nonetheless, of what I've written. Please feel free to share your opinions with me. It would be an honour to hear whatever you have to say :)
Musical Inspiration: "Faithfully" by Journey (but I'm hearing Boyce Avenue's cover and IT SHATTERED MY ROSELOCK HEART).
breathing
missed call
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(When her phone rang, it was five in the morning.)
Rose zipped on her worn leather jacket up to her chin, sliding the hand-sewn, custom-made red scarf over her neck, tucking her unnatural blonde hair under the fabric, shuddering out cold air through a tiny slip between her lips — she sighed. She'd lost a glove, she thought, when she shoved her left, bare hands into the pocket of her jacket, her right hand gripping tight on the cool metal that was her phone as her foot stepped down the narrow stairs, finding themselves landing on the pavement.
It was drizzling.
There was a car or two skidding along the road that early in the morning, and for that one, cutting second, Rose forgot what exactly was that she's doing. It was a second later when she found herself staring blankly at the screen of her phone, her reflection was barely recognisable when the phone log hogged her screen, presenting his name and his two calls. One of it was a missed call.
She stared.
It's been a month since she's seen him— any of them, really. Though Mary and John dropped a call or two, and she's sent e-mails in return, there wasn't much of a connection between them anymore. Especially with him. Even though she was the closest back then to break through his cool facade and challenged him to face Irene head-on, the last she's heard of him was that he'd returned back to his daughter. And well, that was that. He never calls, didn't even bother to.
That was, until that very morning.
She's missed his first call, but caught on when he rang the second time. Her voice had been sleepy, but her tone was on alert. She called out his name, a question: Sherlock? His harsh breathing greeted her first — slow and heavy — and she remembered inhaling, frowning, and she's about to call out again when— "My hands' bleeding."
(For one moment, she stopped thinking — stopped breathing.)
"What—" had been her respond, confused but clear all at the same time. She straightened her back just a little; she fell asleep while going through plans on her table, and her shoulders hurt like hell. "Are you alright?"
He breathed, and detected panic in there, but he swallowed it down. "I broke the plates."
Of course you did, was what she wanted to say, but her mouth clammed shut, her drowsiness slowly seeping away. She paused, pondered and— "Sherlock." His name had sounded holy upon her breath, and she closed her eyes at it, imagined if it had caught his attention. She's quite certain it did. "Are you alright?"
"I—" He hesitated, and stopped. Before: "I don't know. I didn't call John."
She waited. "Why didn't you?"
"I can't."
"Can't?"
"Davies had his speech this morning. Been working on it for weeks. John wouldn't want to miss it." His response had came out near a whisper, like a disappointment, but not quite, even if he was talking about his godson. "Philippa's sleeping."
Philippa. Philippa Holmes. Eight years old, wasn't she? Rose pursed her lips. She could imagine Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, like something hurts somewhere, just not the cuts on his hands, before she heard a breath and then: "She has a fever. I can't—" he paused, just briefly and continued, "—My hand hurts."
Of course they do.
It took her a while to gather her thoughts, and reevaluate the whole situation, but she ran her fingers through her thickening hair when she finally did, drawing out trembling breaths; "Okay," she mostly breathed to herself, standing up. "I'll be right there. Don't move."
So now she stood there, on the pavement in front of her small apartment, her phone tucked between her fingers and the screen blackened, finally. There was a few lingering seconds afterwards that left her still staring against her screen, facing her own reflection and she noticed dark circles under her eyes and thought— when's the last time since she's had a decent dream?
(She curled her ungloved hands into a fist when she didn't find the answers, thumping her foot down the road.)
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She found him kneeled over in the middle of the living room, a clear glass split and stuck between the flesh of his left palm and his phone was covered in blood. He didn't look up once. Not even when she crossed to room to just drop right in front of him, their knees barely touching, his head ducked lower, his whole body hunching in defeat. Rose reached out for his face first, hushing out an obvious, "Gosh Sherlock," and she'd really wanted to say 'what have you done?' but as she brushed a curl of his hair which brushed his eyebrow away, she knew there was no point.
She grabbed his hand then, gently, his blood fell onto her skin.
It was bad.
And on that moment, he finally mustered the energy to lift his chin up, glassy, bright eyes met with her hazel-brownish ones and there was a foreign look of remorse swimming in his pupils, shaping his expression. He looked down at their connecting hands, his lips in a straight line and he said in the lowest of whisper, with just the smallest amount of tremor existed: "I'm sorry."
(It wasn't meant for her— but she nodded anyway.)
She sighed then, a quiet one, examined the cut on his palm. He dropped his phone. And she almost wanted to blurt out, tired, aren't you? And she'd wanted to point out that he wasn't the only one, but she didn't say any of that when the only words tumbling out was: "Come on, then." She managed a small smile, just because that's the only thing she could offer him on the moment. "Let's get you clean up."
And so she did.
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She ran his bath and cleaned his wound and during all those times, he didn't say a word. It was when her fingers interlocked with one of his dark curls and she noticed there were bruises — both old and new — on his body that she stopped her thumb over his temple, tilted her head to one side, intentionally trying to catch his gaze. The tension was thick, just like the blood she washed away from his hands, but her determination stood stronger; when he looked up, giving her those looks which heavily suggested he's sneering a sharp What? all she could mutter was—
"You forgot to just breathe, didn't you?"
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He didn't answer her.
(—he didn't need to.)
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"Philippa will wake up anytime soon." He stated when he's all suit up, hands bandaged, his eyes purposely dropping to the wall behind her.
"She's an early riser then," she commented, giving him another one of her smiles, brushing her hair behind; she dragged her attention outside of his window, noting of the way the day began to colour the sky. She held another tired sigh, and restrained her hand from craning her neck. God, she could collapse right then, she swears. She passed him a look, her smile grew small, but it was there, and she knew he could see it. He didn't return it.
(Did he ever?)
"I better start making breakfast, yeah?" She asked him, raising her brows questionably.
He frowned with those typical fashion of his. "You don't need to do that."
Yeah. Well. I need a drink. She ignored him, crossing over to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets and shelves. Besides from his gruesome body parts and empty supply of edible food, there was only one thought that embed at the back of her skull, and that was her drinks. Or to be more specific, what kind.
And then, just when she lost all hopes, her eyes spotted it.
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"Well, what do you know?" Rose breathed out an empty chuckle, and she could feel his stare bore through her back.
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Tea.
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End Note: Okay. Yeah. Maybe not a one-shot. There's more story behind this, and I very much so want to write Sherlock's daughter (with Irene). I guess this is a good way to begin things? Shrugs. So, yup. I decided what the hell and have John and Mary had a son together instead of a daughter (Davies), and kept the name Philippa (also from the film) into this fiction as Philippa Holmes. I hope I've got to dwell more into Sherlock/Irene's relationship, and Philippa, and develop a slow but steady Sherlock/Rose's... whatever it was that they're having.
Anyways, this has been such a thrill to write. A review would be splendid :)