Chapter 25 - This Morally Compromised World

Sherlock clicked the remote one final time and the television blackened. Rose's weight on his chest had increased minutely in the last half hour, so he knew her to be asleep. Should he wake her, or should they sleep there? The pain in the crook of Sherlock's neck answered the question for him.

He whispered her name and she stirred lightly but didn't wake. Sherlock tried to shuffle out from underneath her which had the better effect of waking her up. Rose sat up and rubbed at her face. Her dressing gown had become loosened, so she held it around herself as she looked back at Sherlock.

"You fell asleep," he said unnecessarily as he sat up as well.

"Mmm," Rose responded sleepily. "Were you right about the movie?"

"Of course I was," Sherlock answered, swinging his legs to the ground and standing up.

He held out a hand for Rose, which she took, and she stood up, stopping in front of him. Entwining her arms around his neck, she hugged him close.

"Thank you," she whispered against his chest.

Sherlock rubbed Rose's back, unsure of what exactly she was thanking him for.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, his fingertips steepled to his chin, a horrible, wrenching ache sitting with him. What had he done wrong? His mind replayed that night over and over. He could only conclude that it was as Rose had stated—bumping into her ex-coworker from the brothel had triggered unpleasant memories of working as a prostitute. But why was he now being punished? It had been three days since he'd left Rose, lying dishevelled and crumpled underneath her quilt, where she had stayed, largely immobile, for an entire day.

Was she ever going to let him see her again?

Rose emerged from the Baker Street tube station and paused once she'd reached the pavement. Gazing along the length of the street, she drew in a breath to steady herself, and momentarily closed her eyes. With a renewed determination, she continued along the street until she reached number 221.

I at least owe him a better explanation than the one I gave him, she thought resignedly, before retrieving the key to the front door from her coat pocket.

Rose hoped that Sherlock had no visitors, specifically of the John Watson variety. She had already decided that she had every right to visit Sherlock, and hang what anyone thought of her. She demanded respect these days, regardless of her past occupation. But her previous life was the sole reason for her breakdown wasn't it?

When Sherlock had whispered sweet things about being more comfortable in bed, and Rose had kissed him back, she felt her stupid dressing gown gap open again because she hadn't fastened it properly earlier. Sherlock's lips grazed her neck as his hand softly brushed one breast before he drew her in tightly. Normally such a gesture would make Rose shudder with desire, but this time she was repulsed at his touch. Thoughts of clients pulling open her dressing gown to devour her for their own lascivious needs filled her mind and made her skin crawl. She abruptly pulled away from Sherlock, and with a sob, hastened to her bedroom, leaving the poor man standing bewildered in her living area.

He'd called after her, but she had completely come undone. It wasn't his fault, and it wasn't fair on him, but she couldn't stymy the flood of tears nor dismiss the overwhelming sense of despair and self-loathing.

She heard him enter the room; he even said he was sorry, his voice cracking under the strain, and he asked her if she wanted him to leave. He didn't even ask why she had reacted the way she did. If was as if he knew. Of course he knew; he was Sherlock Holmes. All the data was there.

Rose was able to sob out a 'No,' so Sherlock lay down on the bed next to her and said not a word. Eventually Rose rolled over to cuddle into Sherlock's chest. He placed one arm around her, staying in the one position for the entire night, not speaking and not moving. Rose had moved back to her side of the bed in the early hours, allowing Sherlock to rise and dress as was his usual routine.

He called to her softly but Rose didn't want to rouse herself.

"Are you working today?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm going in late," she croaked, for her own voice was hoarse from crying.

"I'll see you later then," Sherlock said gently, but Rose stayed hidden underneath the covers and didn't reply. Some part of her wished Sherlock had just pulled the quilt away from her and kissed her goodbye anyway, but when she heard the front door latch shut, she dissolved into tears again.

Sherlock had returned that evening, figuring she would have finished work by then, to find that she hadn't gone in at all. She'd called in sick and had remained in bed for the better part of the day, leaving only to use the bathroom and fetch herself a drink of water.

"I can't see you for a while," she'd said to him in a half-whisper, and not making eye contact. "Just give me a few days, okay? I'll ring you."

Rose spent the following day staring at her list of contacts for counselling services she kept with her for her shifts at the crisis centre. She couldn't decide who to ring. She had on occasion spoken to most of the operators through her volunteer work, and she wanted to avoid speaking with anyone she knew.

Rose had self-diagnosed a delayed reaction to her last paid sexual encounter, something akin to being a victim of sexual assault. She had to talk to someone about it, she knew that. Talking to herself was not an option; she had an alternating crying/laughing session about that notion. She finally decided to call in on Tracey Yale, her immediate supervisor at the crisis centre. She knew when Tracey was rostered on, the following evening, so she stayed at home the next day as well crying a little less, but still feeling like a train wreck all the same.

Rose confided in Tracey her previous occupation and the reaction she experienced after bumping into Chantal, and with Sherlock—not mentioning any names, of course. Tracey was surprised at first, but she found the woman quickly adopted her professional persona, and she was able to recommend a couple of counsellors that Rose didn't know. Just talking to Tracey was an enormous weight off her shoulders, and she made a mental note to ring the counsellors the very next day. But first she wanted to let Sherlock know what she was going through, so she set out for Baker Street the next morning before work.

She couldn't hear any noises coming from Sherlock's flat as she ascended the stairs and Rose had the sinking feeling that Sherlock wasn't even in. When she stepped onto the landing, she paused before stepping over the threshold.

Sherlock looked up, startled to see her. He was standing by his living room table, pulling on his long overcoat.

"Rose," he said, on an exhale.

"Are you just about to leave?"

Sherlock was slightly flustered at the sight of her—of Rose, who was the sole occupant of his thoughts of late.

"No, nowhere of importance." He blinked, then hastened over to the door. "Come in," he said, gesturing to the living area, then closing the door behind her.

Sherlock's heart began to hammer in his chest. The ill feeling that had been a constant companion over the last two days intensified on seeing her.

"Tea?" he forced himself to say in a pleasant tone.

"No... I... um, no thank you. I won't stay long."

Sherlock's stomach churned in disappointment, but he saw with relief that Rose was slipping off her coat. She placed her bag on the coffee table with her coat on top of it, then asked him if they could sit for a moment. Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, then shrugged off his own coat and draped it over a chair. He joined Rose on the sofa, the feeling of unease sitting with him, and he laced his fingers together defensively. He tried to steel himself for the worst. He didn't know what the worst was, because he didn't know exactly what he had wanted, and why he had missed her so intensely over the last couple of days.

Rose inhaled deeply, then clasped her hands together in her lap. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for withdrawing from you like that. I was going through something..." She paused to recompose herself. "I am going through something and I just need some time to process it."

"Process what?"

Rose studied Sherlock's face. He looked so contrite, so at fault for what she was going through that she felt compelled to reach out and touch his cheek. "It's nothing to do with you, Sherlock," she said, gently caressing his face with her thumb.

"I made you feel like a prostitute again," he said quickly and in a monotone, regret etched on his fine porcelain features.

Rose held her hand against his face for a few seconds longer. "You didn't make me feel anything. I'm responsible for my own feelings." She returned her hand to her lap and shrugged a little. "It was just a gesture. Just a stupid thing and it triggered a memory of time in my life I've been trying so hard to forget." She tried to make light of the situation with a half-smile. "If it wasn't you, it would've been a comment someone else made, or a stern look by a complete stranger in the street."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand."

He just thinks it's the prostitute thing, and in a way that's what started it, Rose thought. But it went much deeper than that and she had to let him know otherwise he was going to beat himself up over it.

"Sherlock," Rose began, sighing wearily. "When we first came to that arrangement where I visited you here, when... when I was a... sex worker, I realised how lucrative the escort business could be."

Sherlock's own features hardened at the memory, and he clenched his hands together. He looked down at the coffee table, unable to meet Rose's gaze. "It was all about the money for you then," he added, his own mind not only trying to distinguish between the Rose he knew now, and the person she had been over two years ago, but also reflecting on his own attitude toward Rose as a sex worker.

"Yes," Rose agreed. "So I took on another client as well."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably before making eye contact with Rose again. "Because you needed the money," he said again, matter-of-factly. Sherlock could feel his face begin to flush in anger. He knew he shouldn't feel jealous about this now. He knew full well at the time he was paying Rose to make house calls that she'd still been fucking men at the Lyceum Street brothel. She'd admitted it to him at the time and he couldn't have cared less. But learning about another client who received Rose's personal attention and services—how did he feel about that?

It was Rose's turn to answer in a faint nod. "He was horrid," she forced herself to say out loud. Her eyes prickled with tears and she blinked to keep them at bay. "He... um," she began unsteadily.

"Rose," Sherlock said, protesting feebly. He didn't want to hear the details at all.

"He wasn't as nice as you."

Somehow the statement didn't warm Sherlock's heart. It just sickened him further that Rose had subjected herself to this experience because she needed the money. It was a well-worn excuse, but this was Rose. His Rose. And only last week he'd given her money for having sex with him again.

Sherlock quickly stood up and cleared his throat. He strode to the middle of the living area, then abruptly turned to face Rose, his fingers raking through his hair as he desperately tried to come to terms with what he'd done.

"I'm sorry," he said again, then paced in the opposite direction, stopping in front of the armchairs before the fire.

Rose had left the sofa and walked over to Sherlock. "I'm going to see a counsellor about him," she said, hoping Sherlock would understand that this wasn't about him. "I'll be in therapy," she said, smiling weakly at the irony.

Sherlock turned to face her. "You're a psychology graduate. Can't you just—"

"—figure it out myself?" Rose finished, smiling broadly at Sherlock.

He didn't return her smile; he didn't think this was at all funny.

"I need to talk to someone else—an impartial third person."

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and said, "What can I do for you?" His eyes glistened with emotion, but they were fully focussed on Rose.

Rose struggled against bursting into tears at Sherlock's offer and the sympathy in his voice and expression. She sniffed before answering, but still spoke with a tremor in her voice. "Just be patient with me."

That's... that's not good enough, Sherlock thought. Not for me. Not when I'm fully capable of so much more.

"I meant about him. What do you want me to do about him?"

Sherlock's face had hardened, and the last time she had seen him that angry was when she had tried to proposition John Watson.

"Oh, Sherlock."

The tears escaped this time, and Rose suddenly embraced him, burying her face in his chest.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, and brought his lips to her hair. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed her. All tension left his body as the familiarity of her presence soothed him. She did that to him; it was no wonder he sought her company so frequently since his return. And now she was upset and he desperately needed to make this right.

"I know people," he said, brushing her hair aside. "They can make people disappear. He'll end up in Siberia if you like."

Rose trembled against Sherlock's chest as her sobbing turned to silent laughter. She looked up at him to find him smiling at her.

"Please don't do anything," she whispered.

"Tell me his name and MI5 will find something dubious on his computer."

"You're sounding like your brother now."

Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft owes me. I'm sure I can get him to arrange something."

Rose brought her hands around to Sherlock's chest and dropped her gaze.

"It doesn't matter if he has a blood clot in his brain and dies of a stroke tomorrow," she began wearily. "Or if he dies in a plane crash over the English Channel next week. My past won't die if he does." She returned her gaze to Sherlock. "I have to deal with it."

Sherlock had furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "Mmm, a plane crash would be costly to organise, and then there's the risk of other casualties. A blood clot on the other hand..." His suggestion was accompanied by a mischievous grin.

Rose applied pressure to Sherlock's chest so that he would release her. She didn't want to think about that horrible man any longer and Sherlock's light-heartedness hadn't helped. Stepping out of his embrace, she replied tonelessly, "He has a family. They may need him. I have to go to work now."

Sherlock shoulders drooped as he watched Rose walk to the coffee table and grab her coat. Shoving his hands into his pockets once more, he casually strode over to her.

"Did you see him a lot?" he asked.

Rose paused as she drew on her coat. She fastened the buttons, studying them a little more intently than was necessary, as she replied, "Not as much as you."

Sherlock tried to remember how angry he'd been when he found out Rose had been trying to proposition John. He didn't recall feeling any kind of regret for ending his contact with her. Did she even care, aside from the loss of income since she had this other client? He didn't really want to dredge up the past, but he found himself wondering all the same.

"Were you still visiting him after you'd stopped coming here?"

Rose glanced at Sherlock, her expression a combination of surprise and hurt.

"No," she answered, distractedly pulling her bag over her shoulder. "I stopped seeing him before that. I decided the money wasn't worth the... humiliation."

Sherlock felt relieved. He didn't know why. It seemed a bit irrelevent, and perhaps a bit insensitive. Maybe. He wasn't sure.

"I have to go," Rose said, turning toward the door. She opened the door then paused, as a sense of loss overwhelmed her. One event triggered one emotion, and then another, until... "Why did you have to die?" she whispered, not daring to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"What?" he asked, momentarily bewildered.

Rose's face fell, and she angrily wiped away tears. "This is stupid. I'm sorry."

She quickly rummaged in her bag and pulled out a tissue.

Sherlock hung back, feeling confused. What had she said? What did she mean by that?

"I can't stop crying," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'm a fucking mess. I've gotta go to work."

"Rose."

Rose sniffed then raised teary eyes to Sherlock. "Why did you have to pretend to die?"

Sherlock took a step closer. "You know why—I told you. The whole world knows. It's on the internet."

Rose studied the rug for a few seconds before composing herself a little.

"After you died, I came back to London."

"I know. I followed you to Cardiff."

Rose tried to read Sherlock's expression. Did he know? Surely he would've stopped her if he knew where she was going that evening.

"I needed to find a place to live, and my parents wouldn't have me."

Sherlock huffed a breath in exasperation. He had an inkling where this was heading.

"You needed the money," he recited blandly, but feeling ill at ease all the same.

Rose nodded faintly.

"If I had known—"

"No," Rose said, cutting him off. "You don't get to put this on you. I'm responsible for every decision I've ever made, good or bad."

Rose moved to embrace Sherlock again. Wrapping her arms around his neck she spoke in his ear. "I'll see you in a few days." Then she kissed him briefly on his cheek and hastened out of his flat.

Sherlock exhaled deeply and bowed his head. He rubbed the back of his neck feeling an uncharacteristic pressure building up behind his eyes.

I could have prevented it, he thought morosely. I was too late getting back to London and too slow to let her know I was alive. Idiot!

Now... just who is this guy?

Thoughts of murder made to look like an accident filled his mind.

When a few days turned into a week, Sherlock found he couldn't function properly. He snapped at John over the fact that his friend had been receiving mysterious emails containing nothing but a photograph of a pearl—six emails in succession, while the detective had received nothing half as interesting in comparison.

He wanted to know why Rose wasn't contacting him. And he still felt anger toward this unknown man who was the cause of Rose's breakdown. Sherlock couldn't help but feel guilty for his own contribution to Rose ending up in this pervert's company. Sherlock had given Rose the idea of being an escort in the first place, and hadn't revealed his suicide-sham early enough to prevent her from throwing away her future and finding herself desperate for money. He could see all that now, and it just about immobilised him.

"Sherlock?" John was saying, prompting the distracted Consulting Detective for the third time. "Have you thought of another lead?"

"No, John. Just waiting for this—"

Sherlock's eyes lit up as when his phoned chimed with a message from his contact who was tracing the location of the sender of John's emails.

"A warehouse in Wapping. Come on, John!" Sherlock commanded, snapping to life once more.

The case kept his mind and body occupied for a few more days, followed by a second case phoned in by D.I. Lestrade immediately afterwards. Sherlock barely had time to sleep and eat, and saved his reserves for the cases at hand. He ignored the hollow sensation in his heart until finally the second case was also solved and John had insisted he have dinner with him and Mary at their house, in place of the Chinese takeaway they used to consume post-cases.

Sherlock blindly acquiesced, his mind and body too tired to argue. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he didn't want to return to his empty flat. He picked at his food like some lovelorn teenager, then curled up on the Watson's sofa while his hosts cleaned up the dinner dishes. He vaguely heard Mary saying, "Aw, look at him," and felt the warmth of the blanket she drew over him. He slept, heavily, until the sound of John exclaiming, "Bloody hell, Mary, you used my razor on your legs again!" thundered throughout their abode early the next morning.

Sherlock sat up, briskly ran his fingers through his hair then rose from the sofa, letting the blanket drop to the floor. As he was still clad in his shirt, trousers, jacket and shoes, he gave the impression he'd just arrived for morning tea, and not just spent the night on the sofa.

As made his way to the entrance, John emerged from the main bedroom wrapped in a bathrobe with his face covered in shaving cream.

"You off then?" he asked Sherlock, as the detective drew on his Belstaff.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the unnecessary question but answered in a voice rough from sleep, "Thanks for dinner, and the... sofa."

John chuckled, his eyes twinkling with affection for his bachelor friend. "Anytime, mate. Sure you don't want to stay for a cuppa? Kettle's just boiled."

A female voice called from the confines of the bedroom, "White with one, please!"

A grin grew from one corner of Sherlock's mouth in response to this unfamiliar morning routine between the betrothed couple. "I should get going," he replied in a low voice. "London's probably offered up some new mystery along the banks of the Thames."

John smiled in response. "You can only live in hope, right?"

Sherlock turned toward the door, and popped his collar, pausing to take in an elaborate arrangement of flowers sitting on the entranceway table.

"Flowers for the fiancee, hmm?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Doesn't wreak havoc with Mary's allergies?"

John furrowed his brow. "Mary doesn't have allergies."

Sherlock tilted his head and offered John a benign smile, to which John bowed his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

"No wonder she wanted me to put the bloody things outside."

Sherlock chuckled. "And what was the occasion? Birthday? Guilt over having an affair?"

"Ha ha, very funny. Why can't you deduce the reason from the way the vase is tilted or something?"

"I deduced that you plopped them into the vase like that. Mary would've arranged them more aesthetically. She would've appreciated the sentiment, I'm sure, but can't go near them."

"Smart arse," John muttered. "Well, if you must know, Mary was feeling a bit down the other day. I thought they would cheer her up."

A small seed of an idea was planted in Sherlock's mind, but he was unsure of the details. Data. He needed data.

"Why would they cheer her up?"

"They're flowers, mate. Every woman loves to receive flowers. If not the flowers themselves, it's always the thought that counts. Especially if they've got allergies," he added humorlessly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the floral arrangement, thinking deeply. Once satisfied at the idea that had fully bloomed in his mind he bid his friend goodbye and hastened outside to find a cab.

"What did you have in mind?" the older woman behind the counter asked Sherlock as she continued sliding her scissors along a length of purple ribbon.

"A bunch of them, or something," Sherlock replied, waving his hand nonchalantly as his eyes scanned the entirety of the displays in the florist shop.

"Sure," the lady responded. "Any special occasion in particular?"

"Possibly," Sherlock said carefully. "They all mean something don't they?"

"Well, yes. But you can always pick what you or they like."

Sherlock continued eyeing the displays critically. Finally he pointed to each display in turn, alternating with the index fingers on both hands, as he recited, "Love, affection, admiration, condolences, loyalty, purity, more love, desire, faithfulness, fidelity, sinfulness and pride."

He turned back to the now stunned florist and raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly what I'm looking for."

She cleared her throat and placed her scissors and the ribbon onto the counter. Forcing a smile to her face she asked, "And what sentiment do you want to convey? Perhaps I can arrange something special? Their favourite flower perhaps?"

"I don't know what she likes."

"Is she someone special?"

Sherlock's heart fluttered at the notion of confessing his feelings for Rose to a complete stranger.

"Yes," he answered reluctantly.

"Well, you know, the most romantic flower you can send is a single red rose. It simply means, 'I love you.'"

Sherlock stopped breathing, and stared wide-eyed at the florist. She fixed Sherlock with a kindly smile and said, "Here, I'll show you."

The florist retrieved a single rose from the back of the store and placed it carefully into a delicate vase before setting it in front of Sherlock on the counter.

Sherlock began breathing again and was able to view the flower a little more analytically.

"Red," he began, drawing in a quick breath. "Traditionally the colour of harlots and prostitutes. Not really appropriate. And a rose too. The symbolism's all wrong. That's basically saying, 'I still think you're a prostitute, and since I paid money for this rose, how about I pay for you as well.'"

The florist gaped at Sherlock as he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Er... red can mean love, actually," she responded.

"The wrong sort of love."

"Right then. How about a white rose?"

"Purity."

"Yes."

"A pure rose, in contrast to the recipient. You're not getting the symbolism yet are you?"

The florist stared at Sherlock in disbelief, then asked, ever so patiently, "Why don't you tell me the message you want to send her, and I'll think up a combination for a bouquet that will convey that?"

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and rearranged his thoughts. He tapped his fingers on the counter then said, haltingly, "I-miss-you." And then he gushed a little more confidently, "And I don't know why I'm being punished for you having degrading sex with some sick pervert two years ago."

The older woman regarded Sherlock for all of two seconds, blinked and said in business-like voice, "Right, well that sounds like carnations, lilies and chrysanthemums. Back in a minute."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with her selection. He idly rotated the vase containing the rose and thought, I love you. Why on earth would I choose this one?

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A/N: The cases briefly mentioned are The Poison Giant and The Elephant in the Room, which you can read on John's blog if you like. I've only included them here because they're in the episode. They have no bearing on my story really.

More glitches in their relationship, sorry! It only makes them stronger together I guess :)

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UPDATE 13th Jan 2016: This chapter has been edited to be consistent with changes made to chapter 1.