Author's Note:

Apologies for the delay, I was in a bit of a writing slump - not writer's block exactly, as I know how the rest of the series will go. I was just feeling slightly listless. Winter blues, I guess.

I hope you enjoy the next few chapters. If you remember from the show, The Empty Hearse was set in November, but the next episode, The Sign of Three, is set the following May with flashbacks to the months in between. These will be my attempts at writing out a couple of the cases mentioned, plus the fun of the wedding preparations, all the while developing the relationship between Sherlock and Rose and laying foundations for His Last Vow. The title of this chapter suggests that I'm very obviously setting up elements for the last episode.

But first things first: Sherlock has caught up to Rose in the strip club...

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Chapter 21: The Lie of Leinster Gardens

His smile - that's what did it. That's what made Rose break down: the expression of a man pleased to finally catch up with someone who meant something to him.

Admittedly, she had been out of his life for a mere 24 hours, but he had found her, and he was very happy to see her. At least that's what Rose had interpreted as the meaning behind his smile. When she saw Sherlock's bright expression falter in confusion over her reaction, she managed to choke back her tears. Rose swiftly exited her little cupboard via a side door and called out to J'aime - a tiny transgender bottle blonde who worked the door to the main room - to watch the cloakroom for her. Then she grabbed a still stunned Sherlock by his coat sleeve and pulled him through the front doors and into the street. She turned to face him and gave him a weak, tear-stained smile.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.

Rose quietly nodded, but a fresh tear betrayed her and blazed a trail down her cheek before she wiped it away.

"Let's go back here," she managed to say, beckoning Sherlock around the corner and into the privacy of a small laneway.

"God, Rose, you're shivering," Sherlock remarked, noting Rose's "uniform" consisting of a white, sleeveless shirt, small black tie and short black skirt with stockings. It was the same attire that the bar staff at the club wore - although the male staff wore black trousers instead of skirts and stockings - but definitely not suitable for being outside in the crisp night air of London's early winter. Sherlock shed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders - the kind gesture eliciting another solitary tear from Rose.

"Sherlock," she managed to gasp.

Sherlock was kind of relieved that she was upset in a sad way, and not in an angry way, and more specifically, not angry with him. He was also comforted by the fact that he hadn't found Rose on stage, half-naked, gyrating in front of a room full of leering, half-cut men. He really didn't know what he would have done had he been confronted by that scene.

Putting that notion out of his mind for the moment (for it could still be a possibility - perhaps it was her turn in the cloakroom tonight?), he could possibly cheer her up. Not really his area though, but he could try. He'd observed others doing this and it couldn't be that hard could it? He was something of a genius after all.

He rubbed her arms through his coat and said softly without preamble, "You're upset. Was it my brother?"

Rose nodded again, her fresh tears assuming the role as spokesperson. Yes she was upset, yes, she was frightened but she was relieved that Sherlock knew immediately who had caused her to be so. She felt like a small child being comforted about the monster in the closet.

Sherlock managed a sympathetic smile, which grew until he huffed a small laugh and then chuckled. Rose gave him a puzzled look.

"What?" she asked.

"My brother," he said, straightening up and releasing his hold on Rose's arms. "He really needs a hobby. Well," he added, furrowing his brow in thought. "Perhaps a more conventional hobby."

He noted Rose's still distraught expression and wondered how on earth anyone could take that over-stuffed, imperial whale seriously. John Watson was unimpressed by Mycroft's unconventional approach the first time he had been summoned, and the ex-army captain quickly saw through all the histrionics in time.

"Sherlock," Rose struggled to say. She still didn't know how he could act so indifferent. "He... he..."

"I know, Rose," Sherlock gently interrupted her. "A touch of the dramatics. Just ignore him. I do." He gave Rose a broad smile again, which she found odd, considering the circumstances.

"H-how can I ignore him? He knew all these things about me-"

Sherlock could see that Rose wouldn't let this go so readily. He found her reaction both frustrating and intriguing. Did ordinary people really fear that man? Perhaps that's why he was so indispensable within the bowels of the British Government. It's a pity the British Government hadn't seen how the pompous arse, at the age of 17, had screamed like a girl, having found the innards of a rabbit underneath the bedclothes before tucking in one night. Sherlock had found the deceased bunny on the grounds of their acreage after it had probably passed away as a result of fatal wounds inflicted by his pet dog, Redbeard. Sherlock was disappointed that Mycroft hadn't noticed that his younger brother had placed the organs in their correct anatomical positions had they still been confined within the body of aforementioned small mammal, before he had screamed the house down.

Sherlock thought that he ought to relay some of these stories to Rose, just to make her feel better.

"Mmm, like I said, he needs a hobby. He loves being theatrical, despite his hatred of musical theatre. But who doesn't?" When Rose continued to look upset, Sherlock added, "Look Rose, you probably should know that he tried the same thing on John."

"He did?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, deep in thought. Mycroft hadn't offered money to John Watson to have sex with Sherlock, thank goodness, so in that respect it was a slightly different encounter. He cleared his throat and quickly added, "More or less. Anyway, just ignore him and he'll go away and find a small country to invade or something."

Rose was still taken aback by Sherlock's nonchalance. "You said he was the most dangerous man I could ever meet."

"We-ell," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "He's only considered dangerous to rogue governments or chocolate cupcakes. And since you're neither, then you don't have anything to worry about. Okay?" He tried his charming smile again hoping his little joke would entice a laugh from Rose and end this frankly ridiculous episode.

Rose didn't understand how Sherlock could appear so casual about his brother's threats and then she remembered him snogging her while Mycroft was on the phone. Sherlock definitely possessed a defiant attitude toward his older sibling. But this wasn't about his defiance, it was about her heeding a very real threat.

"I wasn't going to see you again," she informed him.

"I noticed," he said simply, recalling the new lock on the door to her flat. His smile faded. I'm being punished for the sins of my brother, Sherlock thought, and then he had a moment of panic. What if Rose still refused to see him due to his overbearing brother? What would he do without Rose to... to... to what? Why did he need her so much? For sex?

No. Of course not.

For company.

Definitely...

… company.

He had to fix this.

"Rose. I'll talk to him, okay?" When her expression changed to one of hope, Sherlock breathed out deeply and ventured, "I... I still want to see you. If you'll let me." Then he internally winced. That sounded like a plea. Sherlock Holmes didn't plea for anything, did he?

Rose held her breath for a moment, her heart beginning to thunder at Sherlock's words and the earnest look he was giving her. Not wanting to blubber again, she slipped her arms around his neck and emotionally drew him in for a hug.

"Of course," she said hoarsely, clinging to him. "I still want to see you."

Sherlock's head reeled upon hearing Rose's admission. He slowly returned her embrace, relieved that he didn't need to negotiate any further. If she'd pushed back - if she'd said no - he would've turned on his heels and walked away. Sherlock Holmes definitely didn't beg.

Of this he was sure.

He was confused though. His mind was piecing together her previous statements, such as You're so nice, and I really like you, along with her latest declaration, I still want to see you. She'd always indicated she didn't find him as repulsive as some of her previous clientele. However, her 'want' to see him was ever so gently encouraged by that big fat cheque made out to her by his big fat brother. How much of her 'want' was her own emotional needs, versus her financial one?

As they drew back a little, Rose regarded Sherlock for a moment, searching his eyes, the cool grey irises not cold and arrogant, but glistening with hope. The corners of his mouth were turned down and the tiny crease in his brow hinted at his anxiety. Was he worried about me not seeing him again? Rose wondered. She felt a heady rush of emotion all over again and closed the gap between them, pressing her lips to his.

Rose felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her as he matched her tender kiss. His coat slid from around her shoulders due to her arms circling his neck, exposing the bare skin of her arms to the frigid air. But Rose only felt the warmth of Sherlock's embrace and the rapidly spreading heat of the mounting passion that intensified between them.

Sherlock hummed in response to Rose's warm mouth, moist and sweet. He felt her tremble as his grip tightened, molding her body against his. They were lost in the moment, forgetting they were in a laneway off one of the busiest nightclub streets in Shoreditch.

"Rose!" a voice called from the edge of the lane.

Rose broke their kiss with a gasp, and regarded J'aime sheepishly. "I'll just be a minute," Rose told the door attendant breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with desire.

Sherlock still had his arms wrapped around Rose but his attention was also on the interloper. He debated whether or not to release his grip on her, but reasoned that he was holding his coat against her back and therefore she was still receiving warmth from it even though it had fallen from her shoulders.

J'aime looked seriously put out that Rose had taken a break in order to snog with her boyfriend. The blonde pouted petulantly and then whined, "I can't check coats and open the doors at the same time!"

Rose sighed. "Then just manage the coats. The patrons can open the door themselves," she advised J'aime, wondering for all the world why supposed young adults couldn't figure things out for themselves.

"They're not allowed!" J'aime replied vehemently, punctuating her statement with a childish stomp from one of her impossibly high heels. She glared at Rose once more then disappeared back along the street.

"I've gotta go," Rose said to Sherlock. "It seems the clientele are not permitted to open the showroom door."

"I heard," Sherlock replied, his voice pitched low with a slight roughness to it. He had no intention of letting Rose go just yet.

He studied her face, the intensity of his gaze causing Rose to lose the composure she'd almost regained during the interruption. I don't want to go yet, Sherlock thought. I can't go back to an empty flat again. The case he'd been given in order to bring him back to London was solved. More or less. There was still the issue of John and the bonfire. Sherlock still wasn't entirely convinced that it was related to the terrorist plot. So in theory, he had nothing with which to occupy his mind and no company to distract him from turning to chemical stimulants. With the exception of Rose - his new addiction, or so his brother claimed.

And he'd missed Rose. His heart heaved at the thought and he wanted to shake his head to dismiss the rather ludicrous admission.

With a suddenness that took him by surprise as well, Sherlock crushed his lips against Rose's once more and pushed her back against the brick wall of the building in which the club resided. One hand had cupped the nape of her neck while the other impatiently pulled at her shirt, freeing it from her skirt waistband. As a result, his coat fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Rose's hands found Sherlock's dark locks, and she lost herself in the intensity of his kiss. His body pressed firmly again hers as they explored and tasted one another, both hearts now thudding in unison. She gasped as Sherlock's mouth roamed the smooth skin along her neck and his hand caressed her back, gliding around to her front and skimming her breasts.

"Sherlock," Rose panted. She pushed him away lightly, and when his mouth didn't cease, she pressed against his chest more firmly. "We can't do this here." But as his mouth grew hungrier Rose slipped her hands under Sherlock's jacket and pulled on his waistband, pressing her hips to Sherlock's causing him to moan impatiently. She guided his kisses back to her mouth where she too began an assault on him, intense and urgent.

His arms were no longer around her as one hand skimmed underneath her skirt trailing along the bare flesh above the top of her stocking. Rose could sense Sherlock fumbling on his waistband and fly with his other hand. She abruptly broke off their kiss and said breathlessly once more, "Not here, Sherlock."

"Stay away from my friends," Sherlock said in an even voice into his phone as he sat in the back of a cab on his way to Baker Street.

"Oh," Mycroft sighed wearily from the other end. "Which one?" he asked, his voice laced in amusement. "You have so many now. You can't be that far off having a complete set."

"You know which one, Mycroft. Stay away from her."

"Her? Oh. The paid companion." Sherlock could hear Mycroft's deep sigh through the phone line. "Will we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week? You've become rather attached, haven't you?"

"I'm not attached, Mycroft. Just don't approach Rose again," he said threateningly.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," Mycroft replied in a bored tone. "The offer has been made. It's up to Ms Sulford whether or not she chooses to accept it. I won't need to speak to her again, in fact I prefer not to submerse myself in the quagmire of London's sub-cultures in which you so often find yourself. You know, your little ragabond group of friends rather reminds me of that collection of insects you kept in the summer of your youth - the ones that all perished under the little glass cloche in which you had them imprisoned."

Sherlock set his jaw firmly and said icily, "Don't bring up my childhood, Mycroft."

"Of course not, Sherlock. It was all rather awkward for you, wasn't it?"

Sherlock silently ended the call on his brother. Bastard!

He needed to grab some items from Baker Street before heading back to Rose's flat. He was relieved she had suggested he visit her after work even though she didn't finish until midnight and was allowing him just this once to pick the lock now that his key no longer fit. He didn't know what had come over him in the laneway. Well, it's not that hard to figure out, but this was not his normal behaviour. He had apologised to Rose, but she seemed rather amused that Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, wanted to have sex with her in the street.

Nothing was the same as it had been two years ago. Still, there was no point dwelling on the past. Sherlock had thought of a couple of other things he could now focus his attention on until a new case arose, and both of these were located at Leinster Gardens.

Rose pulled her coat tightly around herself, before turning to wave goodbye to her ride. The last few hours at the club had gone painstakingly slowly. All she could think of was curling up on the couch in Sherlock's warm embrace. Things had definitely taken a turn for the better.

As she drew closer to her building, she glanced up at the first floor, imagining Sherlock waiting for her upstairs, having been given permission to pick her lock once again. The light of the street lamp opposite revealed an outline of a pair of shoes resting on her balcony railing. Rose smiled inwardly at the thought of Sherlock feeling comfortable enough in her abode to assume the privilege of using her rolling tobacco. She put her fingers to her mouth and emitted a well-practised wolf whistle - the kind her and a friend had perfected in their late teens as a response to construction workers who would treat them with the same.

The shoes withdrew and the shadow of a Consulting Detective replaced them. As he pulled himself up to his full height, his smiling face was revealed in the dull glow of the street lamp.

"Rose," he called down as her expression brightened. "Stay there. I'm coming down."

His request puzzled Rose. "Why?" she asked, but the balcony was empty.

Rose walked over to the bottom of the stairwell, shivering slightly. Her coat was woefully inadequate. Should've worn the grey one tonight, she thought, chastising herself. Sherlock appeared moments later, cigarette firmly wedged between his lips as he wound his scarf around his neck.

"This has been bugging me for some time," he said, plucking the cigarette out of his mouth as he spoke. "No lights, no comings and goings, no movement at all." He took one last drag and then deposited it into the wall-mounted metal ashtray by the foot of the stairs. "And I noticed the same when we were sitting on your balcony the other night."

Sherlock's mood had picked up since leaving Rose earlier at the club. Not only had he discovered an oddity, but he had someone with whom he could share in its investigation. He had been enthusiastically awaiting Rose's return for the last hour or so.

"What are you talking about?" Rose asked him as he brushed past her and strode across the road, stopping outside the house opposite. "Oh," she commented in realisation, following Sherlock across the quiet street. "They're not real."

"Oh, of course!" Sherlock exclaimed. "The dummy houses of Bayswater. I didn't recall that they were here specifically." I must have deleted that fact. Sherlock chuckled as he approached the portico.

"Ah, Sherlock? I'm tired and freezing. I'm going upstairs, okay?"

Sherlock turned around to address Rose, his eyes glinting in the semi-darkness. "Let's have a look, Rose. Aren't you curious?"

"Um, not really. And you can't..."

But Sherlock had already produced a flathead screwdriver, obviously obtained from her flat, and proceeded to pry apart the two boards that Rose could now see comprised the fake door. Rose nervously looked up and down Leinster Gardens. Not a soul stirred. Within moments there was an audible click of a latch snapping back into its barrel. Sherlock glanced around at Rose and winked. He stood up and pushed one side of the door revealing a narrow opening. "After you," he gestured in the manner of a gentlemen opening the door for a lady to a far finer establishment than this.

"No way!" Rose exclaimed in protest. "Are you kidding? It's dark. I might fall into an enormous pit. Sherlock, shut the door. We shouldn't be doing this."

"Nonsense. It's a mystery just beckoning to be solved," Sherlock said, pushing the door open further. He fished a torch out of his coat pocket and turned it on, directing the beam first along the ground before stepping inside. "The mere fact that this dummy house has a door of sorts with no door knob but sporting hinges means there's purpose for this space and therefore something to hide. I'm going to find out exactly who's responsible and why."

Rose stood in the doorway as Sherlock's torch swept the length and breadth of the empty house which turned out to be little more than the size of a passageway.

"I already know who owns it," she said in a loud whisper.

"What? Why are you whispering?" Sherlock queried at his normal volume. "There's nobody here."

"Sherlock, come out!" Rose beckoned in an even louder whisper.

"No, you come in. It's fascinating. Somebody's gone to the trouble of connecting electricity. Look." Sherlock toggled a light switch on the wall beside him and the room was bathed in the yellowish glow of an array of globes fixed to the wall all along the corridor.

Rose hastily stepped inside and shut the door in case anyone noticed the light emitting from the open doorway.

"It's owned by the lady who lives upstairs from me," Rose said quickly, realising that the more information she imparted to Sherlock, the quicker his curiosity could be satisfied and the sooner they could leave.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up with glee.

"Yes. She's a bit strange; there's all these rumours about her. I don't even like to be on the same set of stairs as her actually."

"Who is she? What's her name? And why does she own this building?"

"I'll tell you her name once we're safe and sound back in my flat. I don't know much more than that."

"Will you be long?" Rose asked, regarding Sherlock who was in the middle of watching an instructional video on YouTube about how to play Poker.

"What?" he asked, not managing to tear his eyes from the screen.

Rose was freshly showered and had wrapped herself in her dressing gown, ready for a naked romp in the sack with Sherlock. At least that was her plan. His was to become an expert overnight on the card game so he could show up to the monthly open invitation extended to the block residents and their friends to play Poker in the flat of one Tonya Small, aka the Clarence House Cannibal.

Rose was disappointed that the identify of the owner of the empty house across the road had resulted in Sherlock's new obsession. She had mentioned Tonya Small's name and Sherlock had repeated it under his breath until his eyes lit up in recognition.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "The Clarence House Cannibal!"

Rose was horrified that such a person lived upstairs from her. She'd of course heard of the rumours about Ms Small - about how all of her lovers ended up with various body parts missing: ears, pinky fingers, an appendix one time. And the donated body parts were all consumed, delicately cooked and presented, over candlelight and wine, in the company of the aforementioned lovers. At least that was the tale of horror spoken in hushed voices within and around Leinster Gardens.

Sherlock had delighted in the rumours, having heard a few of his own over the years. Nothing could ever be proven, and the Clarence House Cannibal - so named because of her resemblance to a youthful Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the Queen Mother, the original Clarence House occupant, although not a cannibal - remained at large and free to indulge in her culinary passions in the privacy of her own home.

Rose had informed Sherlock about the monthly darts game Tonya used to host, which had morphed into a Poker game over the years. The next one was due this very Saturday, and Sherlock was determined to meet her. He had no cases, and this was an opportunity for studying the criminally insane that he was loathe to miss.

"Why on earth would you want to meet her? She seems positively hideous!" Rose had exclaimed, horrified.

"Rose, she may be perfectly delightful! When I was abroad, I met the most fascinating woman. She was hanged for poisoning three little children for the insurance money. You can't judge a person by outward appearances and speculation. The most repellent man I've ever come across is a philanthropist who has spent a substantial amount of his fortune helping the London poor. Absolute wanker he is."

"Sherlock, I really don't think you should do this," Rose remarked. But Sherlock was no longer listening and had grabbed her laptop and settled into her couch while she tutted, then retreated to the bathroom to shower and prepare for bed.

When Sherlock barely replied to her query, Rose seated herself beside him on the couch, leaning in closely to him. He furrowed his brow at her close proximity - the 'frivolous touching' that usually annoyed him - but turned his attention back to the definition of a straight flush.

Rose blinked slowly. Tired. It was almost 2am, and she wasn't going to stay awake much longer, much less have the energy to indulge in some Consulting Detective loving. She was hoping to come home and find Sherlock in the same frame of mind as he had been earlier that night.

She sat up and said, "Come to bed soon," then leant over to kiss his cheek. She was momentarily thrown when Sherlock imperceptibly tilted his face toward her to receive her kiss. His eyes were still glued to the screen however. Rose lingered a little longer, kissing him one more time before finally cupping her hand to his jaw and encouraging him to turn his head to face her.

"Don't be long," she whispered again in an attempt to capture his attention at least fleetingly. She leant in, pressing her lips to his.

When she drew back, Sherlock was regarding her through narrow eyes. Rose had no inkling that he was reflecting on the deal that his brother had struck with the former prostitute. He had noticed the absence of the cheque on the coffee table earlier. Had she cashed it, thereby signalling her acceptance of the offer? Was she doing her 'job' once more? Would a therapy session follow?

Rose gave him an imperceptible smile as she retreated. She stood up, her hands dropping to the sash of her dressing gown. As she turned and walked toward the bedroom she unfastened the sash and the robe slipped from her shoulders, falling to the floor. She called once more over her shoulder, with a hint of a smile, "Don't be long."

The door to her bedroom clicked shut, snapping Sherlock out of the mini-trance he had found himself in. Rose was acting like she was on the job again, he thought, trying to seduce him with her nakedness once more. Was she successful?

Sort of.

Sherlock placed Rose's computer down onto the coffee table. There was no point in studying the game through YouTube videos any longer. He actually needed practical experience before sitting down to a proper game with the Clarence House Cannibal on Saturday night.

He made his way to Rose's bedroom. Opening the door a tad, he glanced in. By the light of her bedside lamp he could see Rose rearranging herself underneath the thin sheet on one side of the bed. She graced him with a seductive smile that he strived to ignore for the moment.

"Do you know how to play Poker?" he asked once she'd settled down.

Rose furrowed her brow as she lay her head onto a pillow. "I know one version of Poker," she said resignedly.

"Let me guess," Sherlock remarked, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "You have to remove an article of clothing every time you lose a hand."

"Yep, you guessed it."

"Still, you'd have to understand the rudiments of the game despite what you give up on losing."

"Yes, Sherlock, but no, I don't want to play right now. I want to get some sleep. Wake me up if you want to have sex later." Rose sighed and turned to her side, closing her eyes.

"No, we'll have sex now," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, leaving the door ajar and turning back to the living room. "Just grabbing the laptop."

"What?" Rose responded, sitting bolt upright.

Sherlock returned momentarily with Rose's computer tucked under his arm. He grinned broadly and shut the door behind him. "You'll be happy to know that I brought over a sample of condoms from my flat. I've already placed them in your bedside drawer."

Rose gaped, before saying, "Happy isn't the right word for how I'm feeling right now."

Sherlock ignored her as he made his way to the other side of the bed, depositing the computer onto the bedside table. He was glad he'd thought of their little research project upon leaving Shoreditch and wondering how he was going to spend case-less days. Investigating the mystery of the Leinster Gardens empty houses was well under way, and now they also had their condom industry marketing research to undertake.

He turned to her, unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke with a little too much enthusiasm for Rose's liking. "I've uploaded my spreadsheet onto a cloud so we can access it from either here or my place."

"Um..." Rose remarked hesitatingly.

"It's in the form of a questionnaire," he continued, undeterred by Rose's non-response. Walking back around the bed to hang up his shirt, he added, "Some of the questions require dichotomous answers - that just means 'yes' or 'no', and others I've used the Stapel scale over the semantic deferential scale. It will be easier to compute a total rating that way." When Rose looked both confused and alarmed, Sherlock quickly added, "Don't worry. I'll guide you through it. Child's play really."

He continued undressing, hanging up his clothing in Rose's wardrobe as she drew the sheet up higher, and sat up to hug her knees.

"I'm not entirely comfortable with this, Sherlock," she managed to say, noting his burgeoning excitement through his trousers and silently hoping it was as a result of glimpsing her naked body earlier, and not about being pleased with his efforts at designing an efficient survey on a spreadsheet.

"The results won't be made public until we've finished, which may be a year away. I think we should try each brand at least three times, going through all of them once first. We didn't discuss the idea of using no condoms as a control, but for that we should get blood tests done for-"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" he asked, shutting the robe door now that he was stripped down to his underwear.

"I don't want to take part in your survey."

Sherlock pulled down his boxers, sitting on the bed by Rose's legs. "Why not? The results will be much more comprehensive if we have both a male and female perspective."

"I - I don't want to have sex with you and have to think about how I'm going to respond to a questionnaire."

Sherlock tutted. "An awareness is all I'm asking for during the actual engagement. You'll have a chance to ponder your answers afterwards. After the first few rounds you'll get used to it, and if we have to declare the initial trials null and void we can do so. We're not on a strict time frame. It'll be fun!"

He grinned widely once more and Rose grew frightened. "I don't want to," she all but whispered.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, wondering why someone of Rose's wide and varied experiences couldn't make use of her skills somehow. "Come on, Rose. It'll be fun as well as informative. I've already written a blog post containing my analysis of 243 types of tobacco ash, as well as one identifying the varying types of perfume. My last one-"

"Sherlock," Rose said in exasperation. She shook her head minutely.

Sherlock brooded for all of a second, trying to determine what kind of incentive he could use to make Rose cooperate if the satisfaction gained from a well-researched project was not enough for her.

He struck upon an idea and smiled at her encouragingly. Putting on his best pleading face - the one he used quite unsuccessfully in the past for getting John to tell him where his cigarettes had been hidden - he said, "Look Rose, if you participate in this research I'll... I'll hug you after we have sex."

Rose was momentarily stunned. "H-hug me?"

Sherlock tried to look earnest. "Yes," he answered simply.

"After sex?"

"Yes."

"When you can't stand me touching you?"

Sherlock reflected on those moments for a micro-second. Trying to display no emotion whatsoever, he answered again, "Yes."

A slow grin spread across Rose's face. She shuffled over toward the middle of the bed, making room for Sherlock, and asked, "What sort of hug? One where you've sort of collapsed on top of me, or one where I'm lying on your chest?"

Sherlock climbed under the sheet next to Rose and tried to determine which would be the least irritating position. "Me on top?" he answered tentatively.

Rose considered this option for a moment. "Mmm, no not really."

He furrowed his brow. "Why not?"

"That would be more like me hugging you then. You can't really get your arms around me."

"Of course I can."

Rose lay down on her side, facing Sherlock as she explained, "Then I'd be sort of lying on your arms. So it has to be me with my head on your chest with you embracing me."

Sherlock brought the image of this scenario to his mind. Ugh. The hair. How long would he be able to tolerate that for?

"All right," he conceded, lying down on his side and facing Rose as well. "You on top."

Rose's grin broadened. "And how long will this hug last?"

"One minute."

Rose was appalled. "A one minute hug?"

Sherlock couldn't see why she was objecting. One minute was like 60 seconds of torture. And he knew all about torture. You had to put yourself in a particular frame of mind in order to withstand it. The minute following sex with Rose was not conducive to entering that state. "Is that not adequate?"

"Not really. I was thinking more like five minutes."

"Five minutes!" It was Sherlock's turn to be outraged. "I can't hug you for five minutes!"

Rose felt wounded. Perhaps she'd misread his body language. "Really?" she queried. "Am I that repulsive?"

"You're not at all repulsive, Rose. The refractory period is when I'm at my most sensitive; I don't like to be touched. However, I'm willing to put aside my personal discomfort in the name of research."

Rose raised her eyebrows and huffed a small laugh. "Four minutes then."

"Two minutes and I won't complain," Sherlock countered.

Rose gaped at Sherlock. "You mean you were going to complain for the entire one minute?"

Sherlock shrugged non-commitedly. "I wouldn't be able to help it, especially if your hair is moving over my chest."

Rose studied Sherlock's face before concluding that he was, of course, serious. "Three minutes and I'll twist my hair out of the way - over my shoulder or something." She grabbed at her hair and demonstrated the twisting action before resting it over her shoulder.

The compromise seemed to satisfy Sherlock after a fashion. He asked, "You'll answer my questionnaire then?"

"After the hugging, yes."

"All of my questions?" he asked through narrow eyes.

Rose tilted her head and carefully asked, "How many questions are there?"

"I've combined a couple, but split the ones that need to stand out-"

"How many Sherlock?" she asked more firmly.

"Twenty-two."

Rose's eyebrows shot up. "Twenty-two?"

"And a place for extra comments."

"Extra comments?"

"You know, in case you need to add something I haven't covered."

"I know what I'll be adding," Rose murmured petulantly.

Sherlock ignored Rose's last remark and grinned broadly. "Do we have a deal?"

Rose slowly sat up and then leant over Sherlock. "Of sorts," she replied, then reached over in order to open her bedside drawer. "What do we have?"

Sherlock sighed as Rose's breasts lightly caressed his chest. He distractedly placed one hand on her back and lightly stroked her bare skin. "Just pick out any. It will be like a lucky dip."

Rose smiled at Sherlock's comment and rummaged around the drawer, her fingers skimming a multitude of condom packets. She drew one out and sat up as she read the packet. "Ultra thin for-"

"Shh, don't tell me! It will ruin the surprise!"

Rose breathed out deeply. It was going to be a long night. "Are you supposed to be surprised?"

"Probably best not to have preconceived notions," Sherlock advised her.

Trying to not roll her eyes, Rose said, "I'll get something else then." She plucked out another, slid the drawer shut and said, "No peeking!" She placed the packet down on top of the bedside table and straddled Sherlock without taking her eyes off his, to ensure his gaze didn't stray. He regarded her with a smile tugging at his lips and affection in his eyes.

Rose's heart skipped a beat, and she reflected once again on the first time they had ever had sex. They were at a similar starting point as they were now, with a couple of exceptions: Sherlock was rock hard, and she was intending to enjoy every minute of him.

Rose gave Sherlock a seductive wink before lowering her head toward him. She did her absolute best to drive that goddamn spreadsheet out of Sherlock's mind.

.

Author's Note:

I can't guarantee how soon my next chapter will be as I'm alternating these updates with my other Sherlock romance. If you read both, you won't be waiting as long :D