Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).
Pairings: developing Rose/Sherlock, deep Irene/Sherlock.
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.
Word Count: 1,534 words [excluding End Note].
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 rediscovers what exactly it is to be human, and how Rose Tyler fits in the aftermath.
Author's Note: Never mind the lack amount of feedback, if you're giving this fiction a chance still, I thank you from the depth of the heart. You make my day. Now on this chapter, we'll be dwelling more on the morning after and I've got to write Sherlock's daughter, so that should be fun. And maybe we'll get an insight on how things ended up they way it did.
breathing
waking up
There was just something about starting over, Sherlock discovered.
(That it was harsh, and it was cruel and it was―)
That. Sherlock's never been good at cutting the ties to his past. It had a way of nestling at the back of his head, spreading poison over his mind palace, or in reality, it had a way of cornering him in the end, no matter how he avoided it. He used to be phenomenal. Genius of the century. Consulting detective; investigating murders. And then, like any tragic there was rotting in what's left of the living world: he fell in love.
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On the other side of the room, Philippa began to stir awake.
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Sherlock had sat there on the same armchair he purchased way back before he even met John, his focus centred around his bandaged hands, and the synching, agonising combination of voices (that sounded annoyingly like Mycroft and his mother) screeched in his head like a dull chant of repeated "how can you be so stupid". He hadn't realise the tea Rose had neatly put in front of him, or that she'd went into his daughter's room without his permission whatsoever.
He was reminded again of how stubborn she really was.
She was kneeling by the bed when he came in from behind, Philippa had obviously just woken up, her eyes droopy and Rose had her hand caressing his daughter's mess of dark hair― there was a sickening smile on her face. Sherlock tried not to cringe as much. "How about some breakfast?" he heard she murmured and watched as Philippa denied her request, her face worn from the fever.
Rose hummed, and nodded slowly. "How about just a nice, warm cuppa? To soothe your throat, yeah?"
"I would like that," Philippa answered, her eyes dropped momentarily before it met with hers again and nodded. There's firmness in her expression that reminded Sherlock of her mother, but he kept it in, or a ghost of her, but he tried not to ponder over it for too long when he turned around and retreated back to his armchair, fixing his stare on the fireplace and made pretence that he's deep in his mind palace, knowing that Rose would want to chat, or revert him into some sort of pathetic conversation where he confessed some sad excuse for his behaviour last night.
It was an accident, he convinced himself. He was only tired. Mentally.
She didn't need to stay here.
(He never drink the tea she served.)
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"Your daughter's lovely."
Of course she is, he almost sneered but didn't make the mistake of moving. She moved past him and sat on the worn armchair John bought after the original one was destroyed in an accident during one of their criminal-chasing adventures. Though by then John no longer resided at 221B Baker Street, he'd made sure to still replace it, which was strange, but Sherlock didn't question it (well, not much) and accepted his sad of a reason that, "it made the apartment complete."
John didn't visit them for more than a week now.
Today was the day Davies delivered his speech in some kind of feeble, childish competition in his school and Sherlock only had this registered in his list to be remembered because John had made it a priority to remind it to him every chance he's got, and not to mention that he made Sherlock reviewed the damn speech for his godson. Though of course Sherlock was certain Davies would win― he took the liberty to scour the competition and none of them were even mildly good.
"John mentioned you're back at being a consulting detective."
It was a statement, not a question. He narrowed his eyes towards her anyway. She caught his stare, and his stomach didn't flinch at the way her eyes shone against the sunlight, the way her smile stretched over face― so freely, so genuinely. He was half-certain his skin nearly crawled. "How's that working out for you?"
He wanted to laugh at her pitiful attempt on making the conversation, but he was too sour to find the humour. "Fine," he drawled, then closed his eyes, exhaling out heavily through his nostrils. "Must you stay here any longer?"
"Sherlock," she called instead, and the familiar (ugly) streak of stubbornness flashed before her features. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a mess," she told him― clean, cut truth sliced over his ego. Her eyes trailed over his wounded hand. "And I've gotten quite good at cleaning one up recently."
(There's a sound at the back of his throat that came out like a growl, but who was he to go against an honest wolf? Albeit she, herself looked more rundown than he'd last saw her; dark circles under her eyes, fresh wrinkles over her skin. Sleepless nights, that was for sure. A wolf without a dream. He almost smirked.)
He decided silence was the best answer.
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It had been a dangerous mission.
An Inception. A dream within a dream. Moriarty was the one who developed it, the one who made it all possible, though he'd only made it to the first phase. But since his great fall, his dramatic death, the idea was sealed shut behind a confidential file, stored only for the highest of governments to see. And in came The Woman, seeking for his help, and whispered him a devil's secret and embarking them on a journey of their lifetime. Happiness was a rare thing in their relationship; he thought she'd preferred on calling it contentment, a satisfaction, the part of their life where everything kind of fell together, and they were bounded, they were in too deep.
Philippa was unexpected as nearly everything that whirled in Sherlock's life, but she was one of the wonderful things to have happened to him. Like John, or Mary, or Mrs. Hudson, or Davies, or Lestrade, or Molly.
And then Mycroft started playing with dreams.
He experimented it, trying out his theories, and brought The Woman into it. And for a moment, the whole concept of it was ideal. She started working for Mycroft and stealing ideas from dreams for him, for the government. And Sherlock was there too, along the way, seeing the process, privately praising his former nemesis on the outstanding idea― he'd almost blurt it out, but it's truly genius. To haunt your competition in their dreams, to steal what's chained in the real world; an idea, a secret.
(He forgot the part where the lines of reality began to blur― where she started crumbling, craving for more.)
Sherlock's lost her to the thing that once held hope for the both of them, to the future they could've had. It weren't going to be easy, they calculated, but it was going to be worth it (it was supposed to be, anyway). And he'd lost Philippa even when she's no longer around― she'd always make this sick joke that she'll never let him win, not when his means were to defeat her. And so he did. For a while there, he lost everything.
(It didn't help that he still kept her, visited her when he's sleeping, sedated enough for another minute; just another second.)
Until Mycroft offered him an alternative: Inception.
Quick get in, quick get out. The mission: planting an idea in the enemy's dream. Assembling the team had been complex, Mary offered to become the forger, wearing mask after mask into executing the plan as they've constructed it to be. John was his assistant; Sherlock needed him. Mycroft had decided he'll be joining along, just because. And he was the leader, the head of the group (though he distasted the position), and the one to create a stronger sedative.
Rose came in like a storm, and ripped his dream into the horrible truth
―a complete nightmare.
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It was almost eight o'clock in the morning
and Sherlock still had no idea why he'd called
her in the first place.
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End Note: Gah. Okay. Maybe we'll see more of Philippa in the next one. At least I've explained some stuff in this. And I've surprised myself by writing this fully from Sherlock's points of view― and I've also heavily inserted the Inception theory based from the film (to which you should watch if you haven't because unless you've seen it, it'll be harder for you to grasp on what's happened). So, yeah. That's that. I hope you had a good read, and a review would do me well :)