Author's Note:

Okay, enough of tormenting all you wonderful and patient readers. Here's the surprise :D


Chapter 29 - The Seventh Known Bolt Hole

Sherlock spent 24 hours sleeping off his jet lag between Rose's sofa and Rose's bed. He had arrived back in London the day before New Year's Eve, hoping to feel half-human again by the time Rose returned from Scotland. He thought he'd be back two days prior, but Inspector Prakesh, his old friend from the Delhi Police, had an intriguing case for him he just couldn't pass up.

His week and a half in Tibet wasn't quite long enough for him to feel completely refreshed and at one with the world, especially after accompanying the Delhi inspector to chase a car full of kidnappers through the Kanjhawala area of outer Delhi. But arriving in Baker Street only set off Mrs Hudson on a post-Christmas frenzy, thinking she had to organise a drinks thing for Sherlock because he had missed out. Sherlock began to wonder what was the point of him escaping to the rooftop of the world in the first place.

He muttered something to his landlady about a case and that he had to "hit the ground running." He sought refuge in Rose's flat and had no intention of returning to Baker Street until New Year's Day, and only then with Rose by his side.

When Rose arrived just after lunch, Sherlock had finally roused himself, still feeling like he'd been run over by a lorry. Of course he knew on which flight Rose was arriving. He'd roughly calculated the time it would take for her to make her way through the terminal, plus he'd estimated the average wait time for a cab at the taxi rank. The travel time from the airport to Bayswater was a bit trickier to calculate, given it was New Year's Eve, but Sherlock was confident he could pinpoint the time of her arrival back in Leinster Gardens within about five minutes. It was unfortunate that the mental exercise, combined with jet lag, had him fall back asleep for another hour.

He'd showered and was in the middle of shaving when he heard the sounds of the front door being unlocked, a suitcase wheeled into the living room and then abruptly discarded. Hasty footsteps told him of her approach. She was both impatient and excited, he deduced, smiling to himself.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, naked to the waist, save only for his pyjama bottoms, razor still in hand, and a streak of shaving cream covering the last spot he still had to shave, when Rose all but threw herself at him. She clung to his neck as Sherlock wound his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, breathing her in.

Apple, pear, coconut, Rose.

Rose's voice was muffled against Sherlock's neck when she said, "I've missed you."

She lifted her mouth toward him, and Sherlock bent down to lightly brush Rose's lips with his. He only intended to taste her, to be reminded of the texture and flavour of her kiss, but her mouth was warm, hinting at an underlying urgent need. Sherlock fought against his immediate desire, which was to take and plunder. He had an experiment to conduct after all, and he been looking forward to Rose returning to find out how accomplished his technique had become.

"Hang on, Rose," he said after easing out of their kiss. "Let me just finish shaving."

Rose beamed at him, before planting one final soft kiss on his lips. "I'll wait for you in the bedroom," she whispered.

Perfect, Sherlock thought, as Rose sauntered away. His mind returned to the task at hand, and didn't stray once to what was waiting for him in the bedroom. He hadn't had sex in two weeks, so this would be an interesting challenge.

But once Rose had straddled him, after they had spent a fair few minutes trading saliva, her look of alarm told Sherlock he probably should've warned her about his experiment.

"What's wrong?" she cried in a panic.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He had succeeded. And as his eyes slowly raked over Rose's naked body with her sitting astride him, he couldn't resist a low chuckle.

"What? What is it? What have you done?" Rose looked in horror at Sherlock's obviously uninterested and flaccid penis. "Have you been chemically castrated?" she gasped.

Sherlock's expression was bright with mischief. "Come here, Rose," he beckoned, pulling her down on top of him. He rolled them, pinning Rose underneath him, then pressed himself against her, skimming his mouth along her neck and jawline.

"Everything is working perfectly fine," he said, brushing his lips over her face as she wrapped her body around him. His mouth assaulted hers, provoking Rose to respond in kind, until she could eventually feel his hardness pressed against her.

Sherlock drew back and propped himself up on his elbows, while Rose regarded him with huge eyes, darkened by her own arousal.

"I've merely accomplished a method of meditative concentration, enabling me to detach myself from sexual desire. My ultimate goal is not only to repress arousal, but transcend it. Mind over matter, Rose. A little trick I learnt in the Himalayas."

"What kind of Buddhist crap is this?"

"A skill I may find useful one day," Sherlock proudly proclaimed.

"Not in this bedroom," Rose murmured against his lips, her eyes narrowing, but full of purpose.


Sherlock woke Rose with light, feathery kisses about her face—the manner that she had taken to waking him on a normal work day.

"Is it time?" she murmured, her eyes still shut.

"It's almost ten. You've got just enough time to shower and eat something before the car arrives."

"Ten? Why so late?" she asked, shuffling out of bed and into the bathroom. She wondered why Sherlock had let her post-coital late afternoon nap continue so far into the evening.

When she emerged fifteen minutes later, she was much more coherent but still in the dark as to where Sherlock was taking her to celebrate New Year's Eve—at least she assumed that was what he was doing.

"Why are we getting a car so late? Wouldn't it be better to walk through the city? We won't get through anywhere."

Rose knew that you couldn't navigate through the city on New Year's Eve by conventional means, with most of the streets around the viewing areas along the Thames closing to traffic in the evening. You either go in early and decide to stay in until the tube re-opened just before midnight, or avoid it like the plague. She tended to favour the latter. But what was Sherlock's preference?

His eyes twinkled as he stated, "We'll get through."

To Rose's absolute bewilderment, the detective was completely right. As the black Jaguar XJ Sentinel was allowed through yet another road barricade, Rose had given up on her yet to be completed statement, which usually commenced with, "I don't think they'll..." with the unfinished part being, "...let us through."

She still didn't get it. They were never stopped; their driver merely slowed down, the road transport police officer would give them a nod, and part the barrier for them.

Rose couldn't believe that Sherlock was taking her to watch the fireworks—the Mayor of London's New Year's Eve Fireworks Display. As spectacular as it was, she was surprised that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, would choose to do something so... commonplace. She thought perhaps they would go to the restaurant atop The Shard, with dinner tickets being just under £400, or the restaurant on the 40th floor of the Heron tower, with dinner a little cheaper at £125. But no. They were right in the heart of Westminster, with the police manning the barricades, letting them through as if they were—

"Sherlock, whose car is this?"

Sherlock chuckled again, much to Rose's annoyance. He'd been doing that a lot this evening. "Let's just say my brother organised it."

Sherlock was bristling with anticipation himself. Not due to anxiety about whether he could gain access or not. He'd been here so many times before, and without Mycroft's assistance. The fact that it was the busiest time of the year was no hindrance either. He hoped that he had read Rose correctly—that the little snippet of information he'd uncovered about her would result in her being happy about his surprise, and not annoyed by it.

As their car was allowed through an archway into the Palace of Westminster, Rose's heart rate accelerated, and her skin prickled with goosebumps. How did he organise this?

"Okay, where are we going?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

As they drove through a tiny courtyard-sized carpark at a snail's pace, with only a handful of stationary cars scattered about, Rose responded, "No, it's not obvious to me. Are we going to a beheading? Perhaps mine?"

"Why would you be beheaded?" Sherlock asked, his eyes glistening with mischief.

"I don't know. You said your brother organised it. What are we doing here?"

Sherlock smiled broadly, and clasped Rose's hand as their vehicle travelled through yet another archway. Rose noted the sign that read "Dead Slow,"—a guideline their driver appeared to be adhering to, which seemed odd at this hour and with no one about. That is, until they turned on a dime, passing within a hair's breath of the walls of another archway—the building and courtyards clearly designed for the horse-drawn carriages of yesteryear.

They pulled up alongside the building where an attendant stood waiting to open the door for them.

"How about some champagne?" Sherlock asked, avoiding Rose's question. He still wanted to maintain an element of surprise since the location of their "date" wasn't obvious to her. "There's a Laurent-Perrier upstairs. I don't drink it, but that's what people like to do on New Year's Eve don't they?"

"Upstairs, where?" Rose peered out at the gothic-style building that loomed in front of them as the car door was opened for her. She knew exactly where they were. But why here? Before she left the car, she turned to the detective and said quietly, "Sherlock, are we going to be around dignitaries and posh people? Because I'm not really dressed for them."

Sherlock noted Rose's look of concern and quipped, "The only posh person you're going to be around is me. And I'm not really posh, I'm just... well-dressed."

The comment didn't elicit the reaction he expected from Rose. She continued to look ill-at-ease.

"No MPs?" she said in a low voice, the stress on her face appearing too readily.

Sherlock's stomach dropped several inches. You idiot, he thought, chastising himself. The Houses of Parliament. Members of Parliament, or the member for Rockwell South, specifically. The one man in the entire universe that Rose wanted nothing to do with and Sherlock the Idiot had brought her to the pervert's 'work place'.

"We're not here to see anyone," he swiftly replied, giving Rose a reassuring smile before she exited the car first.

A well-spoken attendant greeted them (Rose was far too nervous to remember her name) and escorted them inside the building. There they briskly strode along a freezing cold, narrow corridor until they exited onto the other side of the building. Rose could hear the swell of the excited crowd through the fencing and the repetitive thump of the amplified music played by a DJ, which seemed to keep in time with her heart beat. She shivered in the crisp night air, thankful that this New Year's Eve was dry and relatively balmy.

She braved a glance skyward. Good God, she thought, so we are going up there.

"I shall leave you here, Mr Holmes," their escort said, nodding to Sherlock. "Enjoy the fireworks, and have a happy new year."

Sherlock thanked the woman and fished a set of keys from his pocket. Rose stared, wide-eyed as Sherlock unlocked a rather ordinary door at the base of the stairwell that bore the simple label Elizabeth Tower.

Rose couldn't hide her astonishment any longer. "Why the fuck do you have a set of keys to Big Ben?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow at Rose, although she could detect a hint of mirth behind his expression. "Well how are we supposed to get in? They do keep the door locked." Sherlock held the door open for Rose, raising his eyebrows as if it were an ordinary night, and this was her own front door. "And it's not called Big Ben. Big Ben is the name—"

"—of the bell, I know," Rose said immediately. "Everyone knows that, but we all call the tower Big Ben anyway."

"Yes, you do, don't you?" Sherlock replied, letting the door click shut behind them as he stepped inside the stairwell. "Are you feeling fit?"

Rose put one foot on the first stone step and gazed up at the Victorian-era spiral staircase as it wound its way to a dizzying height above them. She drew in a deep breath and asked, "How many?"

"Three hundred and thirty-four. Or three hundred and ninety-nine to the very top. But we can stop at one hundred and something, for a breather, and a sip of champagne if you like. Come on."

Sherlock hastened past Rose, who reluctantly began her ascent behind him. She wondered if she'd be able to keep up with the brisk pace he'd set.

"Will there be anyone else here?" she asked quietly, fully conscious of her voice echoing upwards.

"Just Robbo and Westie, and maybe Westie's daughter if he was feeling brave enough to smuggle her up here."

"You... know them?"

Sherlock just glanced back and flashed Rose one of his sly smiles.

"This is one of my bolt holes," he informed her. "I have them all around the city. I told you that." Sherlock then preceded to describe the workings of the clock, the mechanism room they would come to after they had some champagne in the prison room, the old pennies they used to speed up or slow down the swing of the pendulum, and the time Westie almost fell from a ladder while changing a lightbulb.

Rose couldn't believe Sherlock was still capable of talking when she herself was almost out of breath.

"Oh, I didn't get you to sign a disclaimer before you climbed," Sherlock said, as they took a welcome break in the exhibition room that bore the label Prison room. "There isn't any record of you being here, so you won't be able to sue anyone if you trip, plus consuming alcohol on the premises is—"

There was a hush of fabric behind them, and as Rose turned to the stairwell door in response, a gruff man's voice finished, "—a hangable offense. Good evening Mr Holmes." The gentleman glanced at Rose and winked at her. "Don't let him spin you tales of murderers and kidnappers. He's all talk this one."

"Could never get a word in edge-wise when you're about, Mr Robeson. May I introduce my friend, Rose."

The man called Robbo grinned affably while he shook Rose's hand. He tapped a finger to his nose and quipped, "I didn't see no one." He then gestured toward the stairwell. "I'd better get up and ring the speaking clock before the next quarter hour. Don't forget them ear plugs." He pointed to a box on the floor, underneath a display table. "See you up there."

After Robbo had left, Sherlock took Rose's empty champers glass from her, asking if she'd like a refill. Rose declined, but was grateful that both the bubbly and Mr Robeson's friendly greeting had calmed her nerves.

"Does he really synchronise Big Ben by ringing the speaking clock?"

"Three times per week," Sherlock replied. "They're feeling a bit under pressure tonight though, requiring the fireworks at the London Eye to be perfectly synchronised to burst in between each strike of the bell. The eyes and ears of the world will be upon us, Rose. A quarter of a million along the Thames, and 14 million people watching us on BBC One, and that's just the UK."

"Us?"

Sherlock beamed and grasped Rose's hand. "Of course," he said, stooping to grab a couple of packets of the visitor ear plugs, and leading Rose back into the stairwell. Gazing upwards, he remarked, "Where do you think we'll be when the clock strikes midnight?"

Rose's heart swelled at the thought, and when Sherlock turned back to her, she stepped forward, winding her arms around his neck. She hugged him tightly and whispered, "This is all amazing. Thank you."

When she pulled back, Sherlock ducked his head, kissing Rose lightly on the lips. He said, in a low voice, "That's the last time I kiss you this year."

The Consulting Detective grabbed her hand once more and they preceded up the next lot of stairs until they reached the mechanism room. Rose stood in awe of the complex machinery that drove the clock tower's timing and striking mechanisms. She felt as if she needed to hold her breath to hear the quiet and steady ticking every second. Precisely every second. It was, after all, a clock. Or more specifically, the clock.

"You're a liar, and a thief!" roared a voice, as a rather menacing figure strode into the room. "Where's my shoes, ya bastard!"

Sherlock had turned to face the intruder, as Rose's mouth ran dry at the confrontation. But the detective strode forward, meeting the man halfway across the tiny room where they both embraced, the larger man chuckling.

"McCann," Sherlock said, as they separated. "Haven't they retired you yet?"

"Can't find anyone to train up. I'll be here til the day I die. Thought you'd be a good candidate. Would've been a great cover for you, while you were pretending to be dead."

"Yes, I must apologise for my absence during the winding back of the clocks. I was unfortunately detained abroad. Had I returned to London one week earlier—

"Back and forward," said another man, casually entering the room through a doorway on the opposite side. "You missed four marathon shifts, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock greeted him like a long lost friend also, and introduced Rose to both McCann and the newcomer, Mr Westaway, or Westie for short.

"I had to wind your brother's clock back meself," Westie said. "Made it five minutes slow, just like you always did."

The men all shared a laugh before a whirl and a clunk of the machinery startled just Rose, it seemed. Robbo checked a device he held in his hand. "Perfect timin'," he remarked, and there was a collective sigh of relief from the engineers as the quarter bells commenced ringing The Westminster Chimes above them, signalling a quarter to midnight.

Mr Westaway gave Rose a brief tour along the narrow passageways around the tower's four clock faces, and suggested she also come back during the day so she could walk the length of each side without worrying about casting a shadow when the eyes of the world were on the clock, and she could also peer out through one of the glass panels that swung open between the numbers five and six, and take in the sights of the city that way. The engineer also regaled Rose with a story about the time that Sherlock had donned the gear of an industrial window cleaner, and abseiled down the north-side clock face and helped the other three cleaners wash the glass panels.

"There's a picture on the internet," he whispered conspiratorially. "Sherlock Holmes is the second one on the right. Look it up. The year 2010 it was. The faces are only cleaned every four years. His lordship went mental when he found out."

"His lordship?" Rose asked dubiously.

Westie gave her a mischievous grin. "Mycroft Holmes. That's just what we call him. He don't have no peerage, just acts like it. Complete opposite to his younger brother."

Tell me about it, Rose thought to herself.

"They're just lightbulbs," Rose remarked to Sherlock as they ascended the stairs once more on their way to the belfry.

"What did you think there'd be?"

"I don't know. Some LCD panels or something. I'm actually surprised it's all still mechanical in this day and age. I thought something as significant as this would be driven by a computer."

Sherlock chuckled and replied, "Just wait til you see Big Ben. It actually is an enormous bell."

As they climbed the stairs, Rose asked Sherlock about the significance of McCann's shoes, and why Sherlock had taken possession of them. She was surprised to learn that in the days after the Consulting Detective had leapt from the roof of St Bart's hospital, and before he visited her in Leinster Gardens, he'd stayed one night on the streets (where his own shoes got nicked) and couple of nights in the tower. His horologist friends were only too willing to help the detective, having known him for years, with McCann highly entertained by the fact that Sherlock needed to borrow his shoes. For several years, Sherlock had assisted the team with their clock winding in March and October—all two thousand of the Parliamentary Estate's clocks, which included his brother's in a little known back room, the man having offices all throughout the British Government—in exchange for the Keepers of the Great Clock turning a blind eye whenever the detective required the use of his number seven bolt hole.

There was more to assisting with the clock winding other than ensuring that the peers and members of Parliament had accurate time keepers. Sherlock had access to their offices after hours for a 48-hour period twice a year. Such a privilege had proven useful for more than one case over the years.

In the belfry, in front of the Great Bell itself, Rose snapped a photo of Sophie Westaway, Westie's daughter, with her fiance. In return, Sophie took a photo of Rose and a slightly underwhelmed Sherlock using Rose's phone.

"We should get going," Sherlock instructed Rose, as the latter stood with Sophie admiring photos on Sophie's phone of the newly engaged couple as they had posed in front of various other sites around the city. The couple were only in London for the week.

"Oh, are you going to watch the fireworks from the Ayrton Light?" Sophie asked enthusiastically, pointing upwards.

"Yes," Sherlock replied pleasantly. "It should be easier to see the sky when we're standing above the belfry lights. Are you not joining us?"

"No, we want to stand in the belfry in front of Big Ben when it tolls, with the quarter bells above us."

Sherlock nodded amiably, and Rose called out, "See you later," as they ascended one final set of iron stairs set in a tight spiral to the top of the tower where the lantern was housed. It was colder and windier at the top, and Rose drew her coat tightly around her.

Sophie called out from below, "Don't forget—at twenty three seconds the quarter bells will ring. At least I hope so."

Sherlock and Rose walked around to the north side of the tower, facing the London Eye across the Thames, just in time to see the countdown timer projected onto the Shell Centre commence from 59 seconds. The noise from the crowd below swelled and roared like the ocean. The accompanying music had been simplified to a rhythmic beat in time with the seconds counting down behind the London Eye.

Rose almost felt ill with anticipation, as if the pressure of the bells tolling at the right moment rested squarely on her shoulders. Now that she had met the men responsible, and was standing above the Great Bell itself, she couldn't help but feel the stress of the situation.

Sherlock stood just behind her, and held out a hand, upon which rested a pair of ear plugs. Rose dutifully inserted them into her ears, and shivered as the countdown timer read 31 seconds. Sherlock slid his arms around her, providing her with warmth and comfort, and Rose relaxed into him, just a little. She knew she wasn't breathing when the timer reached 24.

As the first peals of The Westminster Chimes rang out, and the barely audible sound of Sophie Westaway squealing in delight below reached them, Rose gasped in relief. Sherlock chuckled in her ear, before pressing his lips to her cheek. Rose was sure that he felt relieved as well. They were his friends after all.

The quarter bells finished their last obligatory peal with precisely ten seconds to go. And as the crowd below took over the countdown, Rose squeezed Sherlock's arms, which were still embracing her. She breathed in and shut her eyes, listening to the masses, the anticipation building up inside her again. At the three second mark, Sherlock's arms tensed around her, and Rose opened her eyes as the timer read one second.

The air was still as if everyone had held their collective breath for a split second, and then the hammer struck Big Ben precisely when the countdown hit zero.

Rose's eyes watered and the entire floor shook as the tower around them appeared to vibrate as well. She could feel that first toll through her bones, and she began laughing at the unexpected shock that the first strike gave her.

Fireworks burst around the London Eye and the crowd went wild. Big Ben continued to toll with a perfect synchronisation of fireworks in between, never drowning out the 155 year old New Year's herald. Rose stood mesmerised at the spectacle in the sky before her, with the bell tolls resonating all around and through her. When the Great Bell had tolled six times, Rose turned around in Sherlock's arms and hugged him tight. She wasn't interested in the fireworks display right now. The emotion of the night had finally overwhelmed her.

Sherlock had brought her to a place that held a special meaning for him, despite it being New Year's Eve and located at an entire nation's icon. At the same time, he knew it would be a magnificent treat for her. He wanted to make her happy, after a month wrought with emotion. For all of that, Rose had well and truly given her heart to him. She clung to him, burying her head in his neck, not able to speak and unwilling to let him go.

Big Ben finally struck for the twelfth and final time, and the sky exploded with light and sound as fireworks crackled above the Thames, a Catherine wheel emanating initially from centre of the London Eye itself. The tower was still humming with the Great Bell's last toll, and Sherlock reached up to gently ease Rose's arms from around him.

"Have a look, Rose," he said, encouraging her to turn around again.

They stood together, with Sherlock holding Rose against his side, and watched London's world class event, bringing in the New Year quite literally with a bang. Sherlock left off watching the sky, his attention instead drawn to Rose. A tiny smile ghosted her lips, and her eyes were bright with an innocent kind of awe.

Sherlock's heart was full, and knew he had done the right thing in bringing Rose here. Now to let her know his ulterior motive, other than to celebrate New Year's, and hope she wouldn't resent him for it. Sherlock had concluded that Rose had probably spent the better part of her life in disappointment about this fact, and he wished to change that just for a night.

Rose caught Sherlock watching her and her smile widened. Turning to him, she said, "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

She gazed up at him, waiting for the man she loved to either return the sentiment, or grace her with the traditional New Year's kiss. He did neither.

Sherlock's face softened, his eyes warm with affection, as he brought his hands up to cradle Rose's face. He skimmed his thumb across her cheek, and drew a breath in to steady himself.

"Happy birthday, Rose."

.


Author's Note:

I loved writing this chapter—it made me so happy for Sherlock and Rose and the growth of their relationship. I hope it lived up to your expectations!

In case I don't get to update again by next week I just want to wish you all a wonderful Christmas, and thank you for continuing to follow this story. Its growth in readership this year has completely stunned me and I'm enormously thankful for all your support and encouraging words. I hope to continue receiving your support in the new year, and I will strive not to disappoint you with the rest of my season 3 re-interpretation.

I will be updating my profile regularly, if you want to keep up with my writing progress in between posting the chapters. Happy to receive PMs at any time, too!

Hugs and kisses,

elbafo