The pair stood by Sherlock's door. John in front and Rose behind. She was torn, especially when they heard Sherlock's side of the phone call he was having with whom she guessed to be Mycroft.
"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight." He said as John paused at the door. He clarified: "No, I mean you're going to find her dead." He hung up and stood up from his bed, turning to his door. John asked: "You okay?" Sherlock paused when he saw Rose behind John, looking at him concernedly.
"Yes." He answered at last and took the door handle between his fist. He hesitated and asked quietly: "Rose, can I speak with you?" She looked a little surprised and hesitant, but she walked in and Sherlock shut the door on John.
Rose looked at him curiously as he looked down at her. A minute passed in silence before she said softly: "We heard… I'm sorry." His eyes narrowed and he demanded: "Sorry because you heard or sorry she's dead?" Her face fell a little but she replied quietly: "Both."
"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "You've been ignoring me and insulting me since I returned from her house. Why care now?" Rose bowed her head. She said, quietly: "Because you're hurting." He asked testily: "But you didn't care when I was hurting for the past few months?"
She looked up in surprise and Sherlock saw the genuine shock. "You…" Suddenly she looked incredibly hurt, although she hid it well. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as she said in a deathly calm voice: "I see. Sorry, I didn't realize you'd been pining for her the whole time. I assumed her constant texts and the sound of her wondrous voice were enough. My mistake."
She was back to being cold but Sherlock suddenly realized what had been going on for the past few months. And it gave him startling hope. Rose was making to leave as he grabbed her and pulled her to him. She looked completely startled as he looked at her intensely.
"You're jealous." He was watching her face closely, and when he said the words, her face betrayed her. For the briefest moment, fear flickered across her face. Sherlock's eyes lit up and his heart hammered with sudden delight when suddenly she pulled away. He was confused, and then in pain as she slapped him hard across the face.
"How dare you." She spat. Sherlock clutched his face in shock at the sheer force she'd put behind the blow. "How dare you, when you've just hurt my friend who loved you, and I try to comfort you when you lost a woman you cared for, how dare you try to stroke your vain ego." Sherlock was confused but Rose was absolutely furious as she shoved past him and walked out.
Sherlock was bewildered and stood in shock when he heard the front door slam. He thought back and realized where he'd gone wrong. He turned, intending to follow her, but his phone rang. He glanced at it to see it was Mycroft. When he answered, Mycroft had the news he'd requested.
Rose hadn't returned for a week. Sherlock was sulking, and John didn't know what to do. Sherlock had been composing mournful songs, and he could only assume it was for Adler. After all, he'd taken the cigarette from Mycroft on Christmas when they'd discovered Adler, dead.
Both he and Mycroft assumed Sherlock had been affected by her death, although sometimes John did wonder if Sherlock's moping was only worse because Rose was gone too. He didn't know what had happened on Christmas, but Rose had left the flat in complete fury, not stopping no matter how much John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade called after her.
Rose was, in fact, spending the week with Molly. She was both avoiding Sherlock and cheering up her friend after the disaster on Christmas Eve. She'd heard about the incident at the morgue from Molly, and had sighed when Molly told her Sherlock had somehow identified the woman from her body, not the face. But she refused to divulge to Molly why she'd sighed and Molly eventually let it go.
Sherlock meanwhile was in a foul mood because Rose was angry with him, and then left him alone. He'd never bothered that he'd spent Christmas alone, but this time he'd wanted to spend it with her, especially now that he knew she returned his feelings. He'd been in such a foul mood that he'd readily accepted the cigarette from Mycroft on Christmas.
He'd tried to call her but she never replied nor returned his calls. He regretted more than anything that he hadn't chased her down that night. All he'd been doing since was compose. He knew John and Mrs. Hudson were concerned since he'd even started skipping his meals, more so than usual, but between Adler's mystery and Rose he was unable to think.
John was worried sick as he and Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock on News Years Eve morning. He was just composing, and had declared that John's blog counter, still stuck on 1,895 was a message. He'd tried it on Adler's phone, but it was incorrect and Sherlock had dejectedly returned to composing.
John asked Mrs. Hudson as he was about to leave, determined to find Rose and bring her home at least: "Listen: has he ever had any kind of... girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?" Mrs. Hudson whispered: "I don't know." John muttered in exasperation: "How can we not know?" Mrs. Hudson pointed out: "He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?"
John sighed before saying: "Right. See ya." He walked out of 221, to the sound of Sherlock's composing and mentally cursed his fate and his two impossibly stubborn friends. He was just heading out when a woman called: "John?" He turned absently, saying: "Yeah. Hello." He took in the beautiful woman leaning on the railings outside the flat. "Hello!" He repeated, more enthusiastically.
The woman asked: "So, any plans for New Year tonight?" John thought of Rose and he replied slowly: "Er, nothing fixed. Why, you have any ideas?" He asked and the woman smiled as she said: "One."
John groaned as a car pulled up and he grumbled: "You know, Mycroft could just phone me, if he didn't have this bloody stupid power complex." He got into the car, continuing to grumble, and complained the whole way to an abandoned warehouse. Even as he got out, he asked: "Couldn't we just go to a café? Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."
The woman just led him silently inside and then stopped by a door, indicating: "Through there." John walked off, not knowing the woman was calling their mystery caller: "He's on his way. You were right, he thinks it's Mycroft."
John obliviously walked into the warehouse. He saw no-one there and called, looking around: "He's writing sad music; doesn't eat; barely talks, only to correct the television. I'd say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he's Sherlock. He does all that anyw..." John trailed off as he saw the figure walked up to him.
"Hello, Dr. Watson." Irene Adler said. John stared at her dumbly for a while and she looked at him expectantly. He finally said: "Tell him you're alive." Irene replied coolly: "He'd come after me." John snapped back: "I'll come after you if you don't."
"Mmm, I believe you." She smiled and John said angrily: "You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you." Irene shrugged as she said: "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep." She smirked and John muttered angrily: "And I bet you know the record-keeper."
She smiled as she admitted: "I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear." John retorted, slowly becoming more and more agitated: "Then how come I can see you, and I don't even want to?" She answered sincerely, to his surprise: "Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."
"No." John said flatly. Irene lifted a brow and commented lightly: "It's for his own safety." John argued, struggling to maintain calm: "So's this: tell him you're alive." Irene's eyes narrowed as she answered: "I can't." John snarled angrily: "Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you." He made to leave and she called after him: "What do I say?"
John snapped as he turned to her: "What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot." She shrugged as pulled out her phone and she said: "Just the usual stuff." John pointed out flatly: "There is no 'usual' in this case." She almost sighed and read out her past messages for him: "Good morning. I like your funny hat"; "I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner" ... "You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch.' Let's have dinner"; "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner".
John stared at her in disbelief as he asked: "You... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?" She corrected as she typed on her phone: "At him. He never replies." John countered: "No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He's 'Mr Punchline'. He will outlive God trying to have the last word." She smirked at him.
"Does that make me special?" Irene asked coyly, and John paused thinking of Rose. John admitted: "I don't know. Maybe." Irene smirked: "Are you jealous?" John sighed: "We're not a couple." Irene retorted: "Yes you are." She finished her message and read for him: "There ... 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner'."
John was beyond incredulous and completely fed up with the whole thing as she sent the text, and he finally blurted: "Who ... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but, for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay." Irene retorted: "Well, I am." She looked at him levelly as she said contemplatively: "Look at us both."
John scoffed, opening his mouth to argue when suddenly they heard a woman's moan from behind a wall of machinery. John lifted his head in horror while Irene turned to the sound. John made to move after but Irene lifted a hand to stop him as she said: "I don't think so, do you?" He stopped as he thought to himself: Oh God. What have I done? Sherlock…
Sherlock P.O.V.
Sherlock wandered back to Baker Street in daze. He'd followed John, hoping to find Rose. Instead, he'd found Irene Adler alive. She'd beaten him twice now, successfully faking her death from both himself and his brother. He returned feeling as though his whole world had turned upside down.
But he when he arrived in front of 221, he paused at the door, refocusing his mind as he noticed something was wrong. It had been forced open and from what he could see the lock was broken. He pushed the door open carefully and it fell open at the right touch. He stepped in carefully, taking everything in. The open door to 221A, the cleaning bucket on the ground by the stairs.
He examined the stairs as he went up slowly, and saw the scuffmarks on the bottom corner, where male feet had been cuffed as they went up the stairs. And on the walls, faint chips and nail marks where someone had been forced up the stairs, dragged against their will. His face set angrily as he saw how it had happened all inside his head.
He stepped into 221B slowly, careful but deliberate, glaring at the assailants as one pressed his gun to Mrs. Hudson's head. She was sitting on a chair in the centre of the sitting room, whimpering as he walked in: "Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!"
Sherlock said curtly, not taking his eyes off the other three men in the room: "Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson." His eyes focused on the American from Adler's house months ago. "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet. What a tender world that would be." He added scornfully, making the American's lip curl slightly.
"Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson whimpered, raising her hands to her mouth, when the American spoke: "I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes." Sherlock said testily as he moved forward slowly: "Then why don't you ask for it?" He took Mrs. Hudson's hand gently, reassuring her as she whimpered his name. Sherlock gently moved the woman's sleeves a little aside, examining the bruises.
The American said nonchalantly as he gestured the gun at the landlady: "I've been asking this one. She doesn't seem to know anything." Sherlock's gaze became cold. "But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?" Sherlock looked at the bruises all along Mrs Hudson's neck. He saw a cut on her cheek and saw her blood on the American's ring, presumably from when he'd punched his fist into the landlady's face.
And as Sherlock raised his eyes to the American's face his scan was not for information but for locating all the pressure points to hurt this man before him. But Sherlock didn't act on his impulsive desire as he stood straight and replied coolly: "I believe I do." The American had switched to pointing his gun at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sobbed: "Oh, please, Sherlock."
Sherlock stepped back and he ordered: "First, get rid of your boys." The American challenged: "Why?" Sherlock retorted immediately: "I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room." The American conceded that as he said simply to his companions: "You two, go to the car."
Sherlock interjected: "Then get into the car and drive away." The American looked at him but Sherlock just said pointedly: "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work." The American nodded and the other two men left. As they walked out the door, Sherlock nodded at the gun as he said: " Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me."
"So you can point a gun at me?" The man scoffed and Sherlock replied as he spread his arm out wide: "I'm unarmed." The American said disbelievingly: "Mind if I check?" "Oh, I insist." Sherlock emphasized the last word. The American moved to pat Sherlock down, and Mrs. Hudson begged softly: "Don't do anything."
The American kept his gun pointed at Sherlock as he flipped the man's coat open, checking his sides. He then circled around, patting Sherlock's sides and back and Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. As the American bent to check Sherlock's legs, Sherlock grabbed the can of cleaning spray from his right pocket.
He spun around, spraying the American quickly in the face, causing the man to cry out in pain as the spray entered his eyes. Sherlock took the moment of surprise to harshly head-butt the American agent, causing the man to fall onto the coffee table, out cold.
"Moron." Sherlock muttered. He placed the can on the desk beside him and walked over to check Mrs. Hudson, who began to sob at last. She whispered as he bent to touch her cheek: "Oh, thank you." He replied quietly and soothingly as he checked the old woman: "You're alright now, you're alright." She replied, nodding frantically: "Yes." Sherlock, satisfied that she wasn't severely injured, turned his cold eyes back to the unconscious man as he folded his lips and clenched his jaw tightly.
John came back from meeting Irene, sighing as he tried to think of what to say to Sherlock. He paused as he saw a card hanging on the knocker of 221, and read it in confusion: 'Crime in progress. PLEASE DISTURB.' He glanced around the street, but nothing looked suspicious so he walked in, climbing up the stairs to 221B carefully.
He asked slowly: "What's going on?" And when he stepped into the living room he saw. "Jeez." He stared at the American agent they'd met at Irene's house before, sitting tied to a chair in the centre of the room with his mouth taped shut. "What the hell is happening?" John asked
Sherlock was waiting for a call on his phone to go through while he held a pistol aimed at the American agent. He replied tersely: "Mrs Hudson's been attacked by an American. I'm restoring balance to the universe." John turned in disbelief and saw the landlady sitting on the couch, still shaken. John cried: "Oh, Mrs Hudson, my God. Are you all right?"
He sat beside her, placing an arm comfortingly around her as he looked at the American and asked: "Jesus, what have they done to you?" The woman burst into sobs, saying tearfully: "Oh, I'm just being so silly." John reassured her: "No, no."
"John, any news from Rose?" Sherlock asked suddenly, and John paused, shaking his head as he replied: "Um, no, I don't-" Sherlock interrupted: "I tried calling, again, but she didn't reply… again. I left her a message but…" He trailed off as both men heard the front door slam and footsteps running up the stairs.
The blonde woman herself rushed in, taking one look at the agent and then scanning the room. She spotted Mrs. Hudson and rushed over while Sherlock remained silent and John gaped at her. "Sherlock left me a message- Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" Rose asked concernedly as she took the older woman's hands and looked her over gently.
"Oh, no, it's fine." The older woman said tearfully. Rose looked over at John with concern while he blinked at her and Sherlock piped up: "Downstairs. Both of you take her downstairs and look after her." Sherlock and Rose locked eyes for a split second while John nodded as he helped Mrs. Hudson up, saying: "Alright, it's alright. I'll have a look at that."
Mrs. Hudson was limping just a little, her hip and knees sore but she dismissed it as she said shakily: "I'm fine, I'm fine." John asked Sherlock quietly: "Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" Sherlock replied quietly but sternly: "I expect so. Now go." John left, seeing Sherlock's fury boiling beneath his calm demeanour, but Rose stayed. He glanced at her and she answered: "I wanted to see him pay."
He nodded as someone finally answered his call and he said calmly: "Lestrade? We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance." The American watched him as Sherlock continued, putting his gun down: "Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine. No, it's the, uh, it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."
The American glared at him around his bloody, quite possibly broken nose, as Sherlock listed: "Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung." Sherlock glanced at the agent who was looking puzzled while Rose smiled grimly. Sherlock replied to Lestrade's question: "He fell out of a window."
Rose stood with her arms folded outside 221, Sherlock and Lestrade beside her as they watched the ambulance drive off. Lestrade asked with some amusement: "And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?" He gave the two pointed looks to which Rose and Sherlock answered with innocent expressions.
"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector." Sherlock replied. "I lost count." Lestrade looked a mix of amused and exasperated as he walked away, leaving them. Rose turned and walked back into the flats, going to join Mrs. Hudson and John in the landlady's kitchen. Sherlock followed, but grabbed her just outside the door to 221A.
"Please-" he began but she cut him off as she sighed: "I'm sorry." He frowned at that as he asked: "What?" She looked at him guiltily as she replied: "Sorry. I overreacted, and I shouldn't have left like some rebellious teenager. If I'd been here, Mrs. Hudson might not have-"
He cut her off this time as he said firmly: "She might have been worse off, they only needed one hostage and they might've hurt her more to keep her quiet. And even if you had been here, what good would you have been against three larger men, highly trained in combat?"
She made a face as she muttered: "I suppose." She tugged on her sleeve nervously, something he noticed, but he refocused on her face as she added: "But I'm still sorry about leaving like that, and for slapping you. I overreacted, and you were hurting. It wasn't your fault, not completely, and not enough to warrant my actions."
Sherlock paused and as she turned back towards the flat, he stopped her with a gentle hand to her shoulder. She glanced at him and he said lightly but firmly: "You haven't heard what I have to say."
She looked surprised but turned to give him her full attention. He paused as she looked at him expectantly. He was suddenly at a loss as to what to say. How to articulate something that he himself had rejected, refused to think about? She watched him as he began slowly, struggling a little.
"I… I'm sorry for being rude on Christmas. It was just, I never expected that you would hold feelings for me, outside of friendship. It was a miracle when you considered me a friend itself, but I never imagined that for you it would become something more. As you know, I'm not used to love, not even the idea of it, so-"
"Sherlock." She interrupted and he blinked from his ramblings. She sighed and then looked up but he noticed she was avoiding looking at his eyes. She seemed to find the bridge of his nose very interesting as she said: "I get it. Alright? I know you, and I know love is almost an impossible emotion for you." Sherlock almost nodded but something about the way she'd phrased the words made him pause.
She continued: "And I know you say you're married to your work, and it is true. Love is a distraction for you, keeps you from focusing you mind on the things that matter, the things that need to be seen clearly to solve the case. But I also know that at the end of the day, you're kind. But let me tell you this: you don't have to worry about me. I will deal with my emotions myself and you don't need to concern yourself over me."
Sherlock stared at her, shocked. What? He was still shocked as she began to turn away and he pulled her back towards him. She looked into his eyes at last, completely startled. Deciding words were, for once, failing him Sherlock simply leaned down and kissed her.
Rose's mind blanked. She stood absolutely still, so many thoughts jumbling and mixing in her head. But at the very core was the realization: Sherlock was kissing her. He was kissing her. And what was most important was the emotion he had held in his eyes as he leaned in, the dilated pupils, the soft expression in his warm blue eyes.
And now, she could feel his heart hammering against her own racing one, and the soft caress of his lips as he pressed them to hers. He broke away quickly, while she stood rooted to the spot and stared at him. They locked eyes and each saw the truth at last. Rose let out a breath at last as she murmured: "Oh."
He grinned. "How about we keep this between us for now?" He suggested and she nodded at him dumbly. They walked in, each reeling a little on the inside, even though they both kept their faces impassive.
John looked up as they walked in, saying firmly: "She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight. We need to look after her." Both returned to the situation at hand as Mrs. Hudson said petulantly: "No." Sherlock replied as he refocused on Mrs. Hudson: "She's fine." Rose meanwhile sat beside the landlady, rubbing her arms soothingly.
"No, she's not." John retorted as he gestured. "Look at her. She's got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders." He said firmly while Sherlock reached into the fridge. Seeing a mince pie, he grabbed it as he told John: "Don't be absurd." He munched on the pie as John said sharply: "She's in shock, for God's sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it, anyway?"
Sherlock smirked and Rose gave a small smile as the former said smugly: "Safest place I know." Mrs. Hudson smiled as well and she reached into her shirt as she said: "You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot." She handed Sherlock the phone while John looked on in disbelief. Mrs. Hudson continued weakly: "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."
Rose smiled kindly at the woman while Sherlock replied: "Thank you." Sherlock pocketed the phone as he turned to John. He chided: "Shame on you, John Watson." John looked at the man as he said incredulously: "Shame on me?" Sherlock scolded teasingly: "Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall."
He hugged the woman sideways and Mrs. Hudson chuckled at that. John just smiled resignedly and softly as he watched the pair, and Rose smiled softly from her seat across from him.
Sherlock disappeared for a while, taking the phone with him, presumably to a safe place. Rose stayed a little longer to comfort Mrs. Hudson but then she left as well, going back to Molly to spend one more night with her and explain she was returning home in the New Year. She bade the others all good night and Mrs. Hudson soon went to bed after that.
John waited for Sherlock to return, and when he did, John walked back out to their living room where Sherlock was removing his coat. John finally asked: "Where is it now?" Sherlock replied without looking at him: "Where no-one will look."
"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures." John pointed out and Sherlock murmured as he grabbed his violin: "Yes, it is." John paused before he finally broached the topic. "So, she's alive then." Sherlock didn't reply so he asked, looking at Sherlock's back: "How are we feeling about that?"
There were many thoughts going through Sherlock's head. He was thinking about Rose, and then about Adler, and then about Adler and Rose. But he chose not to tell John anything. While Adler was loose, he had a puzzle to solve, and until he had all the pieces, he would rather play the game by the rules 'The Woman' was laying.
So he replied simply as the clock in the street chimed midnight: "Happy New Year, John." John asked: "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" Sherlock ignored him, opting to play his violin as the clocks chimed, knowing Irene Adler would be receiving his text. 'Happy New Year.' He was going to play by her rules until he fully solved the puzzles the two women in his life seemed intent on throwing at him.