Chapter 14
Sherlock
And then Rose collapses from exhaustion. Sherlock pulls a blanket over her, and watches thoughtfully.
Rose wakes up. She stretches, and looks at her phone to see the time.
"Five-seventeen in the morning. Hello, Rose," Sherlock greets her.
"Did you get any sleep last night?" Rose asks him.
"A few hours."
"How long was I asleep for?"
"Approximately thirty-six hours."
"What?" Rose yelps. She covers her mouth suddenly.
"John's at surgery. He left a couple minutes ago," Sherlock tells her, guessing the reason for her panic.
Sherlock notices something. How on earth did I miss that? I'm supposed to be a detective. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.
"You don't have a spare set of clothes." It's not a question.
"You didn't notice earlier?" Rose asks, a lopsided smile on her face. "I don't smell, do I?"
"No. We need to get you more apparel, though," Sherlock stands in thought. He starts to text Mycroft and makes his way into the kitchen.
Mycroft. –SH
It is five-twenty-three in the morning. To what do I owe the extreme irritation? -MH
You have been awake for an hour already. –SH
Irrelevant. Dealing with you at any hour is irritating. What do I owe this annoyance to? –MH
Make sure my debit card has adequate funds. –SH
Why should I? –MH
Rose and I are going shopping. –SH
What chemical or component do you need that is so costly? And what is the nature of the experiment? Why is Rose important? –MH
We're going clothes shopping for Rose. –SH
And what do you plan on buying that is so expensive you need me to check your finances? –MH
Clothes. Anything else would be shocking. –SH
Sherlock, you do not know the first thing about teenage fashion. –MH
Good thing I'm not a teenager. –SH
Sherlock. –MH
Make sure it's done. –SH
Fine. –MH
Sherlock smirks. Mycroft has a soft spot for Rose. Hmm. Wonder when that will come in handy? He walks back into the living room.
Rose has disappeared.
"Rose!" Phone is gone. So is her journal that she was drawing in. I didn't hear any door close, and the stairs didn't creak. So she's still in the flat. But where is she? He spots the open window. Oh. She's outside. He sticks his head out the window. Not on the fire escape. He climbs out the window and up onto the rooftop.
"Took you fifty-three seconds. Longer than I expected." He hears Rose's voice.
"What are you doing up here?"
"Got bored of the flat. I needed some air," is her reply. Sherlock spots her, lying down on the concrete roof. He sits next to her.
"So, what were you texting Mr. Holmes for?" Rose asks. She is on her back, looking up at the sky. All the stars have disappeared, in the hour before dawn. What's she looking at?
Sherlock snorts. "Call him Mycroft. And we're going shopping."
"Oh. Where?"
"Anywhere you like."
"Do we have to?" Rose complains.
"You don't want to?" Sherlock is surprised, but he doesn't show it.
"I'm just…uncomfortable with trying clothes on," Rose replies.
"Hm. I thought all women liked to go shopping," Sherlock says thoughtfully. He files that information away for later.
"Most women do."
They sit there, looking at the sky. Rose scribbles something down in her journal.
"Why are you writing in that?" Sherlock asks, a little condescendingly.
"Because I want to," Rose replies, a little sharper than she meant to.
Sherlock stares at her. He looks at her, really sees her for the first time. She was an enigma, a puzzle to solve. And he thought he had solved her. But I haven't. Not really. I've only just scratched the surface. Strange. I know her whole history, and she still confuses me.
"You were right," he says softly.
Rose is shocked. "I'm never going to hear that again, aren't I?" she asks with a grin.
"Not likely."
"Tell me. How was I right?" Rose asks.
"You are a puzzle. And I don't know your solution. I can't tell much about you from a glance. I thought I'd solved you, but you continue to befuddle me."
Rose is bewildered. "How do I confuse you?"
"You! Just, everything about you! You are a walking contradiction. The way you can be so kind and caring, but the next moment you are more vicious than a mother protecting her child. The way you attempt to hide your emotions but other times you are so open and frank. You are guarded and jaded, but you are innocent and naïve at the same time. Why are you so puzzling?" Sherlock stares at her.
"You don't like that," Rose guesses.
Sherlock sniffs. "Hardly."
"Do you like hanging around people who are puzzling? Because John is more of a puzzle than I'll ever be," Rose informs him.
Sherlock considers it. "Maybe I do."
"Why he puts up with you is more than I'll ever know," Rose smiles. Sherlock starts thinking.
They sit in silence for a few minutes.
"What's your story, Sherlock?"
"Deduce me."
"No."
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asks.
"I can deduce it in a heartbeat, make no mistake, but I want you to tell me about you," Rose simply says.
"What makes my story any different if I tell you or if you can tell from a glance?"
"I don't know. More personal, I guess? I feel I get to know you better?" Rose suggests, a little embarrassed.
"Tell me, what can you deduce?" Sherlock is genuinely curious now.
Rose plays with her journal and pen for a moment. "I told a lot of it to you earlier. You like games and puzzles. You've never had a real friend before, because you think you're better than most people. Emotions are messy, not worth your time. Not a very nurturing childhood, I'd guess. You did drugs for a while, for kicks. To entertain yourself. But someone found you, Lestrade most likely. Mycroft took care of you after that. You are always bored because your mind races a billion miles an hour." Rose stops.
Sherlock doesn't correct any of her deductions. Why bother? She's right.
They sit there, in companionable silence. Nobody says anything. Nothing needs to be said.
The sunrise starts to come up. They watch it, and then go back into the flat because Sherlock complains it's too hot.
"Why did you draw Soo Lin?" Sherlock asks.
Rose stiffens. "To get it out of my system," she curtly replies. She sets the journal down and bounds toward the fridge. "You hungry, Sherlock?"
"No." Sherlock takes Rose's journal in his hands and opens it. She's exceptional at drawing. It's very lifelike. If the average person didn't know better, they'd say it was a photograph.
The book is ripped out of his hands milliseconds later.
"Sherlock, don't open this. Don't read it, don't even breathe on it. Okay?" Rose asks.
"Why not?" It's perfectly normal to have an artist's journal. Why wouldn't she want me to read it?
"Because I don't want you to. Seriously, Sherlock. Are we clear? You don't look in this," Rose tries to get him to understand.
"Fine. It's boring anyways," Sherlock tells her sulkily.
"What do you want for breakfast?" Rose asks him as she walks into the kitchen again.
"Nothing."
"Sherlock! You need to eat something!" Rose's exasperated voice comes from the kitchen. "You're not thinking about anything, digestion won't slow anything down. Come on, you need to eat something."
"I am actually thinking about the shopping we're going to do today," Sherlock tells her haughtily.
"I swear, you're more excited about going shopping than I am," Rose laughs.
At the sound of her laugh, Sherlock starts to smile. He masks it as soon as she turns around, though.
"Sherlock, I'm going to make you ham and eggs. You are going to eat it."
"No."
"Fine, then. I won't eat either." Rose crosses her arms and locks eyes with Sherlock.
Sherlock sighs. "But you need to eat."
"So do you," Rose shoots back.
They stare at each other, a battle of wills. Neither one of them blinks. Neither one of them backs down.
Suddenly, the oddest sound comes from Sherlock's stomach. What is that? I've never had a malady in my life. What could this be?
Rose starts to laugh. "Sherlock, you say you're not hungry. But your body doesn't agree," she giggles.
Sherlock is mortified. Stupid transport! Stupid, stupid transport! I shouldn't be subject to this, this…human-ness!
Rose tries very hard to contain her laughter after her initial outburst. She clears her expression. "Ham and eggs, coming up!" she says brightly.
She makes breakfast. It does smell very good, Sherlock grumbles to himself. When presented with his food, Sherlock takes a tiny bite, as if he's afraid it's poisoned. He doesn't eat fast. Even though it's delicious. Not bad.
Rose devours her food. Within minutes, all the eggs and ham have vanished from her plate.
"So," she starts to say after she puts her plate down, "when are we going shopping? And what are we doing before that?"
Sherlock takes a tiny bite and chews for the longest time. Might as well make this fun, since she's making me eat.
"We're going to the morgue. I need to perform a couple of experiments," Sherlock says after he swallows.
"Can I watch?" Rose asks, a little shyly.
Sherlock looks at her, confused. "I said 'we,' didn't I?"
"Oh, okay. When are we leaving?"
Sherlock checks his watch. Only seven. "We'll leave at ten," he says.
"Okay," Rose says. She writes in her journal. She notes all the things she's noticed about Sherlock. Little things, like the way he can't sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. Or how he drums his fingers when he's bored and steeples his fingers when he's thinking. She starts to draw him, even. Not an all out portrait, like Soo Lin's, but just his face.
She becomes so absorbed in her drawing that she doesn't hear Sherlock calling her name. Finally, he resorts to shouting.
"ROSE!" Sherlock bellows.
She's startled for an instant, then regains her composure.
"No need to shout, I can hear you perfectly fine," she says. She puts the journal into her backpack, slings her backpack over her shoulder, and walks out of the flat with him.
oOo
At St. Bart's, Molly Hooper is examining a corpse.
"Hello, Molly," Sherlock greets her.
She jumps and spins around in fright.
"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" she asks, a slight tremble in her voice.
"Need to perform an experiment. You have any kidneys I can use?" Sherlock inquires.
Molly sighs. "Yes. Give me a minute."
Rose stands off to the side, trying to get a feel for this Molly Hooper. Naturally, she tries to remain silent and invisible during her first meeting with someone. But something is different about Molly Hooper. She narrows her eyes, trying to find out what it is.
"Can I help you?" Molly asks Rose.
"No, thank you," Rose says softly.
"What's your name?" Molly holds out her hand and smiles. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper."
"Rose." Rose takes Molly's hand. She beams, dropping the shy persona. She decides that she wants to get to know this Molly Hooper.
"Right, Sherlock, here are your kidneys," Molly hands him a plastic bag, full of small, squishy organs. Rose watches Molly like a hawk.
"Excellent," Sherlock inspects the organs. He strides over to a few microscopes and starts examining them. He has positioned himself to have a perfect angle of both Rose and Molly interact.
"So, why are you here? I mean, nobody but dead people down here. And me," Molly adds with a tiny giggle.
"I'm with Sherlock."
"You helping him on one of his cases?" Molly asks, as if this was perfectly normal.
"Kind of. Sort of. I guess." Rose flounders for something. She changes the subject. "What are you doing?"
"I'm a pathologist. I inspect all the dead bodies and the cause of death. Sherlock comes to me when he needs things," Molly falters.
"Like kidneys?" Rose asks with a grin.
"Exactly." Molly says.
"Don't let me interrupt you. Please continue with what you're doing," Rose tells Molly. She watches wordlessly as Molly performs an autopsy, careful and methodical in her work. Rose observes as Molly becomes focused and absorbed in her work, fading from reality. She notices and catalogues everything interesting about Molly.
Rose looks around, knowing that Molly will probably think she's a creep pretty soon if Rose continues staring at her. Her interest fastens to an X-ray of a corpse. She looks around in the particular file, and sees that it's the man Moran killed in the house a few days ago.
"Sherlock? They never found the killer of that man, in the house, did they?"
"No. Why?"
"No reason." Rose checks the time. It's almost lunch. Rose entertains herself while the adults work. She opens her journal and starts writing, her eyes flickering to Molly every now and then.
oOo
Sometime later, Sherlock finishes his experiment. He looks up and sees Molly ending the autopsy. But he doesn't see Rose.
"Rose," he calls out.
She pops up from the table. Sherlock notices the journal and pen and the ink stains on her fingers. Been writing, have we?
"Time to go," he merely says.
" 'Kay," she says. She puts the journal and pen in her backpack.
"Where you going?" Molly asks, wistfully.
Sherlock considers telling her, and gets an idea. "Take the rest of the day off. We're going shopping."
Molly's jaw drops. "What?" is all she can manage.
"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again," Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"B-but why? And why should I go?" Molly asks.
"Rose needs clothes. I know the basics of teenage fashion, but not enough to pick out items for her. You know what is fashionable these days," Sherlock looks at her, as if this was basic.
"I have work," Molly stops under his gaze. But she doesn't back down.
"I can take care of that," Sherlock says.
"W-well," Molly trails off.
"If you don't want to, you don't have to," Rose says. She's standing close to the door, ready to go.
Molly stands there, unsure. Sherlock is looking at her with those eyes.
"No, I'll go," she hears herself saying.
Rose's whole face lights up when she smiles, Molly notices. Like Christmas has come early. She likes that smile.
Molly takes off her coat and follows the girl out. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and leaves after them.
oOo
"So, why is Sherlock buying clothes for you?" Molly asks.
"I live with him. I think he feels obligated," Rose says. "He knows he doesn't have to, but he is anyways."
"You live with him and John?" Molly asks, unfazed.
"Yeah." Rose looks at her. "That a problem?"
"Not at all. I just didn't know," Molly replies.
They are at a department store, browsing.
Rose thinks of something. "Sherlock, what's the budget?"
"Irrelevant."
Molly's eyes widen. " 'Irrelevant'?"
"Yes."
"Oh, boy, Molly." Rose cackles at the look on her Molly's face. She takes Molly by the hand and pulls her over to the designer section, laughing the whole while.
She pulls random long-sleeved shirts out of the racks. "Come on, Molly. What do you think?"
She takes the question seriously. "Mm, not yellow or the orange. You're going to have to try them on for me to see, though." Molly pulls out a cool blue shirt, as well as a dark red one. She selects several jeans, some black and some white. "Try these."
Rose takes the shirts and jeans and disappears into a fitting room.
Molly turns toward Sherlock, who is idly glancing around.
"Why does she live with you?"
"She is useful," Sherlock says off-handedly.
"Why are you buying clothes for her?"
"She needs them," Sherlock replies. What is wrong? Should I not buy clothes for her?
"It's just not like you, that's all. To not say anything sharp or nasty, or even think of things like clothes," Molly finally says.
Rose comes out of the dressing room, wearing the dark red shirt and the white jeans.
"That looks nice!" Molly gushes.
Rose shakes her head. "No red," is all she says.
"What's wrong?" Molly asks.
"Nothing!" Rose looks shocked that anything would be wrong. "I just don't like red."
"Oh, okay. Put on the blue one, then."
Rose goes back into the fitting room and comes out momentarily.
"I think the blue looks better anyways," Molly decides. Rose smiles.
"I've picked out a couple of T-shirts and tank tops. It's a younger style, and summer's coming anyways. Try them on," Molly says, offering the shirts to Rose.
Rose's eyes widen. "No T-shirts, please. I'm more comfortable with the long-sleeves."
"Just try them! They're so cute, please try them," Molly pleads.
Rose shakes her head again. "No, thank you," she says politely.
"Why not?" Molly asks. Sherlock comes over. She was so keen earlier. What's different?
"I don't want to," Rose says, voice cold.
"Why not?" Sherlock asks, his eyes boring into Rose's. But Rose doesn't back down.
"I don't want to try them on," Rose keeps saying.
"Okay, then. You don't have to," Molly says. She puts the shirts away and wordlessly grabs some shorts.
"Try these. They're a decent length, I thought," Molly hands Rose the apparel.
Rose takes them and puts them on in the fitting room. She comes out a few seconds later.
"What do you think?" she asks cheerily, dark mood gone.
"Looks good."
oOo
"Does she need anything else?" Sherlock asks Molly. Rose had finished trying on shirts and jeans, and she was putting on her normal clothes now.
"Well, she might need a few more, um, exclusively womanly articles," Molly says, a blush creeping up her neck.
"Yes. I had forgotten," Sherlock mutters absent-mindedly.
Molly lumps a few T-shirts and tank tops into the pile of clothes they would buy.
"She might want them, later," she says by way of explanation.
They make their way over to the lingerie department. Molly takes Rose over to a salesperson to help, and Sherlock is left standing awkwardly. A younger saleswoman starts to chat with him, batting her eyelashes and flaunting her cleavage.
Sherlock is polite as Sherlock can be, giving the girl monosyllabic answers to her questions. Annoying. She is cheating on her boyfriend, who is a smoker. He's a gambler, too. A bit older than her as well. She doesn't have a stable family. Her parents divorced, three, four years ago? Mother drinks, father has temper problems. Dropped out of school. Not the smartest person.
Finally, he just snaps at her and lets her know his deductions. "Stop attempting to make your advances on me. You have a boyfriend, and I have no interest in being yours. Your mother drinks and your father has anger issues. You dropped out of school a year ago, mostly because you couldn't keep up with it. Low IQ, no prospects of a better life."
The girl's eyes fill with tears and she stars to sob. She runs away from him, and he sighs as silence fills the air around him. Much better.
When Molly and Rose come back, they go look for shoes.
"I like Converse," Rose says. She looks at a pair of dark blue trainers. She picks those and another pair of lighter blue ones.
They reach the checkout and find that the total sum is several hundred pounds.
Sherlock slides his card and pays for it.
oOo
Sherlock and Rose drop Molly off at her flat.
"Thanks, Molly. I had fun today," Rose says, looking down at her shoes.
"Me too," Molly says. She smiles. "Bye, Rose."
"Later, Molly," Rose says.
The cab pulls away from the pavement.
"Are you satisfied with your clothes?" Sherlock asks.
"Yeah. Thanks, Sherlock."
The cab reaches 221b, and Rose carries her bags in. She puts the bags down collapses on the couch, which has become her bed.
Sherlock sits in his chair and steeples his fingers.
"Is John working a double shift today?" Rose asks, voice muffled because of the sofa.
"Yes."
"Okay."
Rose pulls out her journal and starts writing again. She writes about her day and the stuff she got, which was pretty cool, if she thought about it.
"How many scars do you have?" Sherlock asks, suddenly.
Rose tenses. "When did you figure it out?"
"The T-shirts. Why you didn't want to try them on for Molly to approve. How many do you have?"
Rose sighs. "I don't know. I never counted. Never wanted to."
"Can I see?" Sherlock asks.
"No, Sherlock."
"Please? Molly bought tank tops," Sherlock says. He stands suddenly and rummages through the bags and finds what he's looking for. "Put it on," he commands, throwing a tank top at her.
"Why would you want to see? They're just scars, old wounds that didn't heal completely."
Sherlock kneels by the couch, face to face with her. "Please, Rose? I just want to see."
She looks him in the eye, and sees his guard down. She sees something, something human in his eyes.
"I'm sorry. But I don't want you to see them. Not yet, at least."
Sherlock stands, and Rose wonders for a moment if she hurt him. He turns away, and sits in his chair. She climbs onto the roof again, needing to get away from the tense atmosphere.
Fury rages through him. Who would dare scar her? Who would dare make her so ashamed? Who would dare hurt her? He wants to find the person responsible. He's not sure what he would do if he found the criminal.
The strength of his fury scares him. He calms down, and locks his rage away. He is caring about her. Caring is dangerous. He shouldn't care, he knows. But for some reason, he does.
oOo
On the rooftop, Rose takes a deep breath. Why was he so curious about her scars? They were nothing pretty, she knew that much. She works on Sherlock's drawing, sketching. When she comes to his eyes, she pauses. She only sketches in pencil, so she couldn't capture the colour of his eyes. But even if she had coloured pencils, she's not sure she could draw them well enough to do them justice.
She eventually decides to draw them and get coloured pencils later. She's satisfied with her drawing, and stands up. It's late at night. She's not tired, though.
Rose decides to walk on her hands on the lip around the roof. She knows that if she looses her balance, she will fall, and probably die. That doesn't scare her, though. Death has been a constant companion, all her life. She isn't afraid.
She stands upon the lip of the roof and bends backwards. She kicks her legs upwards and holds them there, her balance equal to that of an Olympic gymnast. She starts walking. Rose looks down on the street below, bustling with life. Even though it was only eight at night, the streets were almost clear. She turns at the corner of the roof and keeps walking.
For the briefest of moments, her balance slips. Rose teeters, swaying sideways. She looks down, and becomes dizzy. He head spins, and, for what is eternity to her, she almost tilts too much to the side. Adrenaline rushes through her, slowing time down.
But she rights herself, and stands on her hands, ramrod straight again. She dismounts and stands on the roof, well away from the lip this time. She laughs at her near-death experience. She giggles until she falls down, and crawls back, laughing, to her journal. She makes a quick entry and smiles.
Because she's realized something.
Rose leaves the roof and goes back down to the flat. Sherlock is waiting for her.
"Rose…." Sherlock starts.
"It's okay. I'm just not ready for anyone to see them, yet. I think you were trying to help. I think you were trying to show you care. Maybe later I'll let you see the scars, but not right now," Rose interrupts him.
He gapes at her for a moment, then closes his mouth. She understands. I don't even have to do anything. She just does. A little puzzle, for sure.
She smiles. The door opens, and John walks in. He's weary and tired.
"Hey Sherlock, Rose." John trudges toward his bedroom, about to fall over from exhaustion. Rose stands next to him, able to catch him if he collapses.
"Busy day?" she asks.
"You have no idea," John replies with a yawn. "I'm going to bed."
He walks upstairs and goes in his room. Rose hesitates for a moment, then follows him.
She knocks on his door.
"Yeah?" comes John's tired voice.
"Um, I just wanted to say goodnight," Rose says.
"Oh, goodnight Rose."
She walks back downstairs and flops onto the couch. Rose grabs her journal and starts writing.