Author's Note:
I know. Ages again! But look, fluff!
This chapter grew to over 9K so I chopped it in half, giving you this bit now, with the next chapter not far behind. But also, as it's almost the festive season (in my fic), I've still not made it to next year, and therefore Sherlock is not allowed to commence any wedding preparations, if you remember the stipulation that came from John (ch. 24). So, despite my previous promises, there is still no wedding preparation in this chapter. Hope you'll still like it.
Did I mention fluff?
Chapter 28 - Traditional, But Not Obligatory
Sherlock had almost drifted off again when the constant babble of the movie on telly abruptly ended, rousing him in its absence.
"I was watching that," he said to Rose through half-slitted eyes.
Rose laughed as she dropped the remote control onto the coffee table. "No you weren't. You were actually sleeping. In fact, I'm sure I could detect the faint sound of a snore."
"You heard no such thing," Sherlock retorted, sitting up. He sleepily watched Rose for a few seconds before asking, "So, did you find your... thing?" He gestured vaguely toward Rose's dining table, where she was currently stacking up notes and assignment papers from her earlier years of study.
The former student had been trying to find her notes introducing the topic of forensic psychology that they had covered briefly during her second year, so she could be prepared for an interview once she submitted an application to the London Met University. The post-grad course commenced the following September. Rose wished she had thought of the idea earlier in the year, so she could be well on her way, but then again, it had taken the return of Sherlock Holmes to nudge her in the right direction.
Sherlock thought he'd keep her company by quietly watching another late night crime-thriller movie, but once again he predicted who the killer was in the first ten minutes, then promptly fell asleep.
"Ah, yes, I did find it eventually," Rose replied. Her eyes danced in amusement, causing Sherlock to mentally shake himself to rid his sleepy mind of its thick soupiness.
"But?"
"But then I got distracted and started reading all my papers, finishing up with the one about a brilliant man who sought the services of a prostitute to lose his virginity."
Sherlock hung his head briefly, raking one hand through his curls, and making a concerted effort to push Tonya Small's words to the furthest rooms of his Mind Palace. He heaved a sigh then slowly met Rose's gaze once more. "A good read, was it?"
"I got quite a few things wrong, as it turns out."
"Such as?"
"Just a couple of personality traits," Rose said, as she finished her paper sorting and began making her way toward the sofa. "The subject of my study is much nicer once you get to know him properly."
Sherlock shook off the last remnants of sleep as he rose. It had been a long day, but Rose's slap earlier was now a faded memory. He was keen to keep their interactions pleasant and let Rose take the lead. Catching the subtle meaning behind her remark, he decided to play along. "Really?" he said, watching in interest as Rose approached him.
"And he's capable of so much more."
She stopped in front of Sherlock, and she was relieved to find a degree of warmth emanating from those sometimes piercing grey eyes. She reached up, gently resting her hands on his chest, her expression bright, her arched eyebrows challenging him.
Sherlock's voice took on a gruffness he usually reserved for their horizontal encounters. "You need to cite specific examples."
The timbre was not lost on Rose. She slid her hands upwards to Sherlock's shoulders, tilted her face toward him, and lingered there, her lips only a breath away from his. "For example," she whispered.
Sherlock dipped his head, meeting Rose's kiss halfway. He felt her body soften and meld into his own. Using a phenomenal degree of patience he didn't know he possessed, Sherlock kept his response light but full of tenderness.
When Rose eased out of their kiss, Sherlock tried to keep the disappointment from his eyes.
"And that's a direct quote," she said softly against his lips, before she stole another brief kiss from the detective.
Rose let her hands drift down Sherlock's pyjama shirt, and as he dropped his hands from her back, she linked fingers with him. Gently guiding him toward her bedroom, she offered him a shy smile. She hadn't decided how far she was comfortable taking this. They hadn't had sex in weeks, and Rose couldn't predict how she would react when either she became aroused, or she became aware of Sherlock's desire.
Sherlock was of the same mind. He had already indicated that morning that he didn't want to have sex with Rose; he just wanted to be near her. He halted outside the bathroom, saying, "I just need to go. Won't be long." He offered Rose a reassuring smile, which she returned just as amiably.
When Sherlock entered Rose's bedroom a few moments later, she was already underneath the quilt, lying on her side, facing the middle of the bed, with the room illuminated by the warm glow of her bedside lamp. Sherlock slipped in beside her, but remained on his back, turning only his head toward her. He reasoned that if he lay on his side and Rose pressed her body close to his, she would feel his burgeoning erection. He tried hard not to anticipate having sex with Rose, but the more he strove to convince his body it was not going to happen, the more it reacted in the opposite manner.
Stupid physiological responses.
Rose had watched quietly as Sherlock made himself comfortable next to her.
"Thank you," she whispered as he turned his head toward her.
"For what?"
"For being here."
Sherlock gave Rose a faint smile. Thank you for being here, and not immediately jumping on top of me, you mean, he thought ruefully. Then he cleared his throat and said, quite quickly, "I'm content to lie next to you, but so you don't get the wrong idea, you should know that I have an erection and it's nothing to do with wanting to have sex with you right now."
To his surprise, Rose chuckled lightly. She reached for the hand that lay casually across his stomach and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"I think it has everything to do with wanting to have sex with me right now."
"No, no," Sherlock countered. "It has everything to do with having sex with you later. Much, much later. And it's going to be very good. My body is merely reacting to such a thought. It will go away once I'm asleep." Sherlock used his other hand to give a rather contrived couple of pats on Rose's hand. "Goodnight, Rose."
Rose withdrew her hand but slid over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.
"'Night, Sherlock," she whispered. She rolled onto her side, facing the opposite direction before reaching over and switching off her bedside lamp.
She'd never seen Sherlock Holmes fast asleep before. The brilliant man was usually awake long before Rose. All the tension had left his face, his lips were full and his breathing was steady and light. Rose watched him for a moment longer, an ache growing inside her, one of longing and hope coiling around a feeling of calmness and serenity. She resisted the urge to lie down again next to him, and to tangle her fingers in his curls. Instead, she bent over him and kissed his temple.
"What... what?" he said, a little groggily as he stirred.
Rose had to quickly straighten up to avoid being the recipient of a headbutt as Sherlock immediately sat bolt upright.
"What happened?" he demanded, then he eyed her clothing critically.
"It's okay," Rose reassured him. "I was just kissing you goodbye."
"Why? What happened? Why are you dressed?" He vigorously ruffled his hair before turning to his wristwatch that he'd placed on the bedside table before he went to sleep. "What time is it?"
"I've got to go to work. You slept in."
"Slept in? I don't sleep in."
Sherlock swung his legs from the bed as Rose watched him in amusement.
"You did this morning," she said, giving him room to stand up. "You must've needed it. I have to go. You can go back to bed."
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I'm awake now. Why would I go back to bed?"
But there was a truth to her words—Sherlock knew that. He must've needed it. He had no longer lain awake as he had each night for the past few weeks, wondering why Rose wouldn't see him. No waking early, hoping today would not only bring forth a challenging case, but also bring his Rose back to him. He lay in Rose's bed, next to Rose; his mind was at ease, and he had slept.
Rose couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's petulant expression. He looked like a small boy who was told it was time to wake up and get ready for school.
"I really have to go," she repeated, before giving Sherlock a quick kiss on the lips.
"No. Wait," Sherlock said, placing his hand on the small of Rose's back to keep her there longer. "You clearly have no idea what a goodbye kiss entails."
He set about showing her—soft and tentative at first, then deepening it by degrees, depending on the response one received from one's partner. Seductive, explorative and tender.
Rose had never before tasted a kiss so sweet, and her eyes remained closed for a moment longer when Sherlock eased back.
"Goodbye, Rose. See you later." A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Sherlock was quite pleased with himself.
"Christmas."
The distasteful word was uttered on a bitter exhale by the Consulting Detective, and all hope left Rose's heart. "I was thinking of going back to Tibet for the entirety of the so-called holiday season," he continued. "I'm being pulled three-ways, Rose. Mrs Hudson wants to do a thing back at Baker Street, John and Mary want to start a new tradition at their place, and my parents—dear God, someone murder me now—want me to accompany them to what my mother calls, 'Possibly Uncle Rudy's last Christmas' in Dover. Dover, Rose. Everyone thinks there's something special about me being back just in time for Christmas.
"You know, there's a tiny monastery off a beaten track along the road to the Tibetan side of Mount Everest, just out of Shigatse. Practically impassable at this time of year, but I know a Tibetan goat herder who can get hold of a jeep—mad as a March Hare and blind in one eye. The breakaway sect of Buddhist warrior monks who reside there would be only too happy to put me up for a while and escape this madness. I may even make this an annual trip. And it'll give me a chance to donate something back to the monastery without it ending up in the coffers of some government official."
There was silence while Sherlock closed his eyes, and steepled his fingertips to his lips as if his mind had already commenced the pilgrimage to the Himalayas.
Rose sighed and continued with the washing up. She had brought up the subject of Christmas because she was hoping to invite Sherlock along to spend it with her and her parents for a few days. Part of her plan to make amends with her parents was to spend Christmas with them, and that meant staying with her mother's aunt and cousins in Scotland, where Mr and Mrs Sulford had travelled the last two Christmases. Mrs Sulford had insisted on Rose joining them now that mother and daughter had reconciled.
Rose didn't want Sherlock to think she was abandoning him over the period, as it was her intention to be away for two whole weeks. She thought he may like to join her for some of the time, but she did wonder about Sherlock and holidays. Did he even take them, other than to escape family at this time of year?
"I'm going up to Scotland with my mum and dad for Christmas," she said eventually, looking over at Sherlock's immobile form on her sofa.
"Scotland," he repeated, meditatively, his eyes still closed.
Rose turned back to the sink to rinse the last dish when she became aware of Sherlock's presence right beside her. She almost jumped in fright.
"Why Scotland?" he asked through narrow eyes.
Rose stifled a giggle when she saw the intensity of his gaze.
"My mum's family are there. They live in Perth," she replied. "And... I've been having lunch with my mum. It would be nice to celebrate Christmas with them again. It's been years."
"Family," Sherlock said, with venom in his voice. He drifted away, shaking his head, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Rose wiped down the benches and the dining table, and hoped Sherlock would be okay with her heading north. Given his rant about being in demand for Christmas this year and his obvious dislike of family gatherings, she decided she wouldn't even bother inviting him to spend any time with her.
She also wondered what bedtime would bring. She had to applaud Sherlock's patience. He had been spending every night with her for the last few days, since she had abandoned her attempts at self-therapy with her sporadic visits to Baker Street. And each night, he'd kiss her as if he was completely content to taste and sample, and not devour. He would whisper, "Goodnight," then roll over onto his side away from her.
He no longer woke before her, and it seemed that he actually preferred being woken up by Rose's kisses, before she left for the morning shift at Roches Entertainment. He allowed Rose to take her time rousing him, planting soft kisses all over until his face broke into a broad, sleepy grin.
As it was Saturday night, Rose had made herself an early dinner (Sherlock had declined of course), and was about to get changed for a shift at the Rendezvous strip club.
Sherlock dashed out of the bathroom, and grabbed at his jacket, which was draped over an armchair.
"I'll share a taxi with you," he said as Rose passed him on her way to her bedroom. "They can drop me at Baker Street on the way to Shoredi— Why aren't you dressed?" he asked abruptly, only just noticing Rose's attire.
"Because I didn't want to eat in my uniform, and risk spilling soup on my white shirt," Rose called from her room.
She had shed her dressing gown and was just fastening her shirt buttons when Sherlock approached, and leant on the doorframe.
"What time do you finish?" he asked.
"Twelve. Should be home by one," she replied, pulling her skirt from its hanger.
"I'll meet you there, and grab a cab home with you."
"What will you be doing in Shoreditch?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I'll call by after I finish at Bart's. Save you catching the tube by yourself at such a late hour."
"I usually get a lift. I'll be fine thanks, Sherlock."
Sherlock folded his arms in front of him and brooded for a moment as Rose pulled on her skirt and zipped herself up.
"And when are you leaving for Scotland?"
Rose finished tucking in her shirt and smiled at Sherlock. She had a feeling he wouldn't let the subject drop so readily. "In a week," she replied. "We fly out on the 16th."
Rose approached Sherlock and lightly touched his arm in a gesture of reassurance. "And I'll be back on New Year's Eve."
"Two weeks?" Sherlock asked, his tone laced with disappointment.
Rose nodded. "How long will you be in Tibet for?"
Sherlock sighed, as if he had just resigned himself to the idea that was only in its infancy a few minutes ago. Now there would be no reason at all to stay in London over Christmas, and he had been thinking that the alternative to hiding in the Himalayas would be to hide out in Leinster Gardens. With Rose. He didn't have the foresight to realise that she may actually have her own plans for Christmas.
"A week at least, probably two," he replied. "I'll need a few days to acclimatise. I don't want to risk altitude sickness by ascending too rapidly."
Rose laughed lightly as they both left her bedroom. "I can't imagine you trekking through the Himalayas and living in a monastery."
Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf from the back of a chair, while Rose sought her handbag and shoes.
"I travelled all around Eurasia in search of Moriarty's network," he explained, pulling on his coat. "It really was a global enterprise. One of his drug smugglers working her way from India to China thought she could hide out in Tibet."
"I've never even crossed the Channel," Rose murmured as she also drew on her coat.
"Why don't you come with me?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
Rose paused by the front door, as Sherlock drew nearer, slowly wrapping his scarf around his neck.
"To... Tibet?" she asked. Rose's heart-rate quickened. Sherlock was asking her to go away with him—for Christmas. Her parents were paying her airfare to Scotland, and accommodation was taken care of. There was no way she could afford this, and she was reluctant to allow Sherlock to pay her way, if that was on the cards.
Sherlock smiled broadly. "It will be fun! And you can imagine the sunsets! I hope you'll take to eating Yak's butter. You get used to it after a while. There really isn't a huge variety in the cuisine..."
Sherlock tapered off when he realised Rose wasn't reacting as joyously as he'd hoped.
"Or not... stupid idea," he muttered, opening the front door for them. "Government bureaucracy for travelling to Tibet is horrendous. I'm only able to do it at a pinch because of my brother. You probably won't even get a permit."
"I don't even have a passport," Rose added, preceding Sherlock through the door. "And I can't afford a trip abroad at such short notice." She turned back to the detective, her face softening. "Thanks anyway, Sherlock."
Sherlock latched the door and pulled it shut behind him. He knew what was happening here. Rose's absence from his life at a time when he had come to depend on her emotionally had made him react in this needy manner. He had to step back and reassess. "Some other time," he said warmly, returning Rose's gaze with one of affection.
Rose stepped up to Sherlock and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "That sounds wonderful."
They descended the stairs together with Sherlock still ruminating on the reality of travelling to Tibet, possibly as early as next week, if he didn't want to be left in London without Rose's company. But wait—couldn't he go to Scotland? That would solve two problems: he'd be away from London and the pull of his family and friends, and he'd still be with Rose.
No. He couldn't just invite himself along. Don't act needy, remember?
So... Tibet. He'd have to grovel to his brother to pull some strings, plus have to explain to the annoying arse why he had to go at this time of year. He was sure Mycroft was planning something in the Crimea just so the pompous git himself could avoid the family-do in Dover anyway.
"There's always Budapest in spring," Sherlock said with a tiny sparkle in his eyes, and Rose's heart fluttered once more as they stepped out onto the ground floor.
Since when did Sherlock Holmes become romantic all of a sudden?
Rose was expecting to find Sherlock already in her flat when she returned from the club, but she was disappointed to find it empty. All she had thought about for her entire shift was Sherlock and his romantic ideas for trips abroad. It was enough to send her libido soaring, so she had decided that tonight was the night.
But where was he?
She showered and changed anyway, and busied herself around her flat clad only in her dressing gown. Just the other night, Sherlock had given her an odd look, which he didn't think she saw, when she had climbed into bed wearing pyjamas. He was only familiar with Rose coming to bed in her dressing gown, shedding it when their bedtime antics were to commence. Since the advent of no-sex, she had taken to wearing her tank top and pyjama shorts, thinking it would be cruel to lie next to Sherlock, naked.
Rose stifled a yawn and decided that it was pointless waiting up for him, not knowing where he was or what he was up to.
When Sherlock arrived an hour and a half later, Rose was well and truly asleep. The detective stood in the doorway to her bedroom, trying to deduce the meaning behind the crumpled dressing gown on the floor and a naked Rose beneath the sheets. Was she sleeping naked because he wasn't there, or because she had wanted something to happen tonight? Or maybe she'd just forgotten to dress chastely? Or because she really wanted to have sex with him? Or because her pyjamas were in need of a wash and therefore were in the laundry? Or because being around people in the adult entertainment industry tonight had put her in the mood?
"Are you coming to bed?"
Sherlock snapped out of his reverie, to find both Rose and his penis wide awake.
He cleared his throat and said, in a voice thick with longing, "I'll be back in a minute. I need to have a shower. I smell like a skip bin."
"Why do you smell like a skip bin?" Rose called out sleepily.
"I was rummaging through one," Sherlock shot back as he exited her room.
Rose hugged her pillow, wondering what on earth Sherlock had been doing rummaging through a skip bin in the early hours of the morning. She struggled to keep her eyes open, and it was only the thought of Sherlock making love to her that kept her from falling asleep altogether.
Sherlock returned to Rose's bedroom holding his clothes in one hand and keeping the towel wrapped around his hips with the other. He felt enormously refreshed, but more importantly, he carried the scent of Rose's soap and shampoo on his person, instead of rotten food. He dropped his clothes onto a chair, causing Rose to roll onto her back at the muffled sound.
"Why were you in a skip bin?"
Sherlock hoped the dim lighting in the bedroom was enough to hide the raging erection that the towel failed to conceal.
"Looking for the murder weapon," he said matter-of-factly.
Rose propped herself up on her elbows and shuffled to the head of the bed in an effort to wake-up fully. "Was there a murder?"
Sherlock shot her a look of disdain. "No, Rose. There's a special category of household items called murder weapons. Whether people choose to use them as such is an entirely different matter."
Rose furrowed her brow, not following Sherlock's explanation at all. "What?"
"Sarcasm, Rose."
"Oh," she commented feebly, running a tired hand through her hair."I'm far too sleepy for sarcasm."
"Clearly."
She watched as Sherlock tried to wrestle open the top drawer of her bureau with only one hand. "Do I get a hello kiss?" she asked.
"Let me get dressed first," Sherlock answered, still preoccupied with the drawer.
"You don't have to get dressed. I thought that would've been obvious to you."
Sherlock turned to Rose, his eyes quickly scanning her outline underneath the sheet. "I didn't want to get my hopes up."
A sly grin grew on Rose's face, and she pushed aside the top sheet and slid out of bed. She stood in front of Sherlock completely naked and placed her hand over the one he was using to secure his towel. Arching an eyebrow, she said, "Let go, Sherlock."
"I'm... far too modest."
Rose burst out laughing, causing Sherlock's face to soften, a hint of a smile teasing his lips. "Sherlock Holmes, modest?" she chided. "Let go of the towel."
Sherlock relinquished his hold, giving Rose the opportunity to pull the towel away with a flourish.
"Looks like you have your hopes up already."
"That's... not because of you."
As Rose dropped the towel onto the ground then wound her arms around Sherlock's neck, she whispered, "It better be because of me, mister, and not the contents of the skip bin, otherwise I'm going to have to sort you out good and proper."
Sherlock's initial plans to take Rose slowly and patiently were shelved as Rose made her own intentions very clear. Her mouth sought his, tempted his, teasing a kiss from him before her tongue darted inside when his lips parted. She pressed her hips against Sherlock and he stifled a moan in response to the unexpected pressure.
He had wound his arms around Rose and held her close, his palms flat against the small of her back before his mouth left hers and blazed a trail along her neck to the smooth curve of her shoulders. Slow down, he told himself as he listened to her tiny sighs of pleasure. It had been far too long. Sherlock didn't know if his impatience was going to ruin it for them both.
Rose shuddered against him, and in a second he had dragged her to the bed. His own self-control was seriously compromised when she gasped his name. Slow down, you idiot.
Sherlock's mouth navigated lazily across Rose's skin as he endeavoured to pace himself despite her eagerness to please him. He swore when she went down on him; he was far too sensitive for such nonsense, and her light, teasing laughter made him determined to gain the upper hand.
Rose was too quick for him. She straddled him so suddenly, jolting him into bumping his head against the bedhead, that he swore again, but this time in pain.
"For Christ's sake, have you ever done this before?"
Rose laughed, as she delved into the drawer of her bedside table. "Just once or twice," she said, feeling quite out of breath herself. "Sorry."
She retrieved the protection and turned her attention back to Sherlock. He was gazing up at her with a curious expression on his face. The air in the room went still, until there was only the sound of their laboured breathing. Sherlock pulled himself to a sitting position, his eyes not leaving Rose's as she tore open the packet.
"There's no rush," he murmured, with a tender brush of his lips against hers.
"Why?" she sighed.
"Because I'm going to please you," he said, his lips leaving hers and feathering the soft skin along her neck. His voice lowered a notch or two as he spoke. "And that takes time. You deserve so much more than a quick fuck."
Sherlock brought his hands up to cup Rose's face as her breath hitched. His mouth met hers, his tongue skimming her lips until they parted, before Sherlock proceeded to kiss her deeply and thoroughly.
An ache pulsed inside Rose. The solid feel of Sherlock's body, and the warmth of his mouth threatened to undo her. A small sob escaped her and Sherlock withdrew.
"We can stop at any time," he said softly, his hands still framing Rose's face.
Rose shook her head. "No, I'm fine," she whispered back, before bringing her hand up to brush Sherlock's cheek. His eyes were darkened by desire, yet still glistened with affection. Her heart suddenly felt like lead, and she longed to tell Sherlock that she loved him, just to alleviate some of the weight. "You're so wonderful," was all she managed to whisper before a solitary tear escaped.
Sherlock gently wiped it away with his thumb, before his mouth quirked into a smile. "I generally get called an arsehole, but that makes a nice change."
Rose sniffed, and her face brightened a little. "Not by anyone you're fucking, I hope," she laughed, pressing lightly against Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock emitted a low chuckle, as he lowered himself back to the bed, bringing Rose with him. The rumble from deep within and the predatory glint in his eye made all her doubts disappear behind a sudden onset of passion. Her mouth came down hard on his, and while Sherlock used desperate hands to pull her closer, he felt Rose slip the condom onto him, taking him inside her almost simultaneously with the proficiency that only came with her kind of experience. The meaning behind his thought was swiftly smothered as they fell into a seductive rhythm. The need built up in him, driving everything else from his mind.
Sherlock's body was completely responsive to Rose's as she drove them both harder and faster. When the heat and pressure became too unbearable, he grasped Rose, rolling her off him and tumbling her to the bed. He told himself to slow down, but he was back inside her with one hard thrust. She moved against him ruthlessly, taking what she needed until, helpless to resist, he let himself go.
They fell apart, both sated, and completely exhausted. Rose listened to Sherlock's breathing and resisted the immediate urge to curl up into his chest, all too familiar with his post-coital hypersensitivity.
Once Sherlock had caught his breath, he looked across to Rose and remarked, "Well, that was tedious."
A smile grew on Rose's face at the quip, but it was the wink and the outstretched arm that provided her with a much needed invitation to spend the rest of the night in Sherlock's embrace.
Further love-making sessions throughout the following week seemed to alternate between an urgent need to alleviate the build-up of tension through a rush of passion, or a slow, sedate, lingering of two lovers content to take the time to taste and explore one another. Sherlock continued to visit Rose each night in Leinster Gardens, except for Sunday night, and the following Saturday night at the end of the week—the two nights Rose worked at the Rendezvous strip club. Rose found it easier to obtain a lift back to Baker Street from Shoreditch, rather than get her friends to take her all the way to Bayswater.
Rose spent long days working at the entertainment store so she'd have more money squirrelled away for the holiday period when she wasn't earning anything, and every other night that she wasn't working as a cloakroom attendant, she spent volunteering at the crisis line call centre. She had felt guilty not taking many shifts at their busiest time of the year—the Christmas period. She was always happy to return home to find her Consulting Detective boyfriend waiting for her in bed, or lying on her sofa yelling at her telly. He always greeted her with kisses so tender they made her toes curl.
Except for Wednesday.
On Wednesday night she didn't see hide nor hair of Sherlock Holmes, until just before she was departing for work on Thursday morning. He stopped by, complaining of needing sleep, or tea—or something that was seven percent stronger than tea—before regaling her with a story about a head on a pike discovered outside a medieval-themed restaurant. Passersby and patrons had all assumed the head to be fake and part of the décor until it began to attract flies.
On Sunday morning Rose and Sherlock lay in her bed, legs and arms entwined, neither one wanting to be the first to move away. Sherlock was flying out to Tibet, via Delhi, at lunchtime, with Rose leaving for Scotland with her parents in the early evening. Silence seemed the best way for them both to convey how each one felt about the next two weeks.
"What time on New Year's Eve will you be home?" Sherlock asked eventually, threading his fingers through Rose's as she shuffled into his chest.
"Just after lunch."
Sherlock was silent for a moment longer, a plan forming in his mind. He had spent the last few days conducting research. It had become quite obvious to him that he knew little about Rose's background, so rather than quiz her about it, he thought he'd do what he did best—research and investigate. He was determined to do something nice for Rose, and something completely different from their usual routine, so getting to know her and her past experiences would go a long way to determining what her preferences would be. In doing so, he had uncovered a very interesting piece of data about his companion.
"Do you have any plans for New Year's Eve?" he asked tentatively, as the whole idea of asking someone on a date was quite unfamiliar to him.
"I'm working."
Not quite the words Sherlock wanted to hear. "At the club?"
"No, at the call centre. I'll already miss helping out during the Christmas period, so I offered to do New Year's."
Rose had spent the last two years working on New Year's Eve at the strip club, which had been hired by a leading men's magazine for their end of year party. The pay was always generous, but this year Rose wanted to work at the crisis centre. She thought her time and skills would be put to better use there.
Sherlock tutted and banded his arms around Rose. "Couldn't you skip it? Say you missed your flight or that you're ill from eating too much Christmas pudding?"
Rose chuckled, before reaching out and caressing Sherlock's cheek. "Tell me what your plans are, and I'll let you know if I want to get out of working that night."
Sherlock frustrated the hell out of Rose by smiling enigmatically. He answered simply, "It's a surprise."
Author's Note:
And the surprise is in the next chapter! Let me know how soon you want it!
You may or may not have noticed that I've taken to regularly editing my profile, giving my progress on updating my multi-chapter stories. Check it out if you're ever wondering what's happening with the next chapter.
