Chapter 36 - Swan or Sydney Opera House?
Rose's eyes widened at the message she'd received on her phone. She felt a warm flush spreading across her cheeks, and a slight stutter in her heart. The involuntary physiological reactions weren't the result of a pleasant surprise.
Oh God, Sherlock. What are you doing.
She turned around in her swivel chair and regarded Gus, her co-worker. His back was to her as he faced his computer screen. He was playing Solitaire. Again.
Arsehole.
Resisting the urge to whack him on the back of the head, Rose stood up, straightened her skirt, and smoothed her hair. Goodness knows why. The man who was waiting for her outside had seen her in disarray many times.
Pausing by the door, she checked her phone one more time, hoping Sherlock would send her an 'I'm only joking' message. But he hadn't. His message remained on her screen, effectively making her alternate universe collide with reality.
I'm looking at some weird electrical appliances. Could you come join me if you're not too busy? I need your help. I don't like the woman who tried to offer her assistance. —SH
Trying to exude a calm air, Rose exited her little office at the back of Roche's Home Entertainment store with one thought on her mind: why was Sherlock Holmes shopping in her workplace?
She spotted his out-of-place personage in quick time over by the Health & Beauty appliances. Stifling the desire to laugh, Rose hastened over to him.
Sherlock had his brow furrowed as he held a boxed appliance in one hand. Rose stopped beside him.
Without looking up, he said, "What exactly is the purpose of this device?"
"It's for straightening hair."
Sherlock pointed to several boxes on the shelf in front of him. "Yet these are for curling hair. Can't people make up their minds?"
Rose folded her arms in front of her, and smiled in spite of herself. She replied, "I guess some people aren't satisfied with the type of hair God gave them."
Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to Rose. With his brow furrowed, he remarked, "Don't tell me you believe in that ludicrous fantasy, too, Rose. How could I not have deduced that about you?"
"I don't," she replied. "It's just an expression. Sherlock, what are you doing here?"
Sherlock heaved a sigh in frustration. Placing the appliance back onto the shelf, he answered, "I'm trying to find a wedding present for John and Mary. This is clearly the worst day of my life."
At this remark, Rose couldn't help but chuckle.
"I'm pretty sure John doesn't need to straighten his hair," she offered.
"Who knows?" Sherlock said with a shrug. "In his obvious obsession with me, he may like to curl it."
Rose huffed a small laugh again. "I'm not sure you'll find anything suitable in this aisle."
"And that's the problem I had to begin with. That woman over there tried to sell me a television set. As John and Mary shacked up some time during my supposed death, they've already accumulated everything a couple could ever want. This is a ridiculous exercise."
"Don't they have a gift register?"
"Yes, but I almost died of boredom in Selfridges, and the staff there annoyed me. I don't know what Mary sees in the place. You're the only one who can help me, Rose."
Rose almost couldn't resist his huge, dark eyes, and she suspected Sherlock knew that, too. But this was a semi-public place, as well as her place of work. People would talk.
"Sherlock, I work here."
"Exactly. That's the point."
"But I'm not in sales. I'd be stepping on people's toes."
Sherlock shrugged and reached for Rose's hand. "That's their problem for being incompetent. I only trust your opinion. That woman with halitosis was far too pushy."
Rose carefully extracted her hand from Sherlock's. "Look, I'll help you for a second, if only to direct you to the correct aisle. So what did you have in mind?"
"Nothing, Rose. Weren't you listening? I ducked in here on the off-chance that someone had invented a new, pointless household appliance that John and Mary didn't already have. I hate shopping, and since I've already spent..." Sherlock paused to check his watch. "...two hours and thirty-seven minutes browsing at Selfridges, I thought I may as well ruin the rest of my day and keep going. The thought of sharing my misery with you was the light at the end of the funnel."
"Tunnel."
"What?"
"Never mind."
Rose sighed deeply, and quickly scanned her surroundings for any co-workers that may be close enough to eavesdrop. Seeing that the sales staff were all preoccupied with the midday rush of customers, she moved closer to Sherlock.
Speaking in a low voice, she said, "Okay, we'll talk about it when I come over tonight. We'll check the online stores. You may as well go home now. Browsing is not good for your health." Or mine.
"We don't have time to order something online and get it delivered before the wedding."
"The wedding's four weeks away."
"You can't rely on people or postal services," Sherlock stated simply.
"Look, Sherlock, we'll browse online to get some ideas, then go in store to purchase. Or at least you can. Okay? That way you don't have to waste time wandering about. We can shop and cuddle at the same time."
A satisfied grin grew on Sherlock's face at the notion. Rose was a genius.
"Okay, I've got to get back to work," Rose bid Sherlock. She could see that it was fine to leave him now that he was in a better mood.
"Will you be going home first?" he asked.
"No, I'll have to go straight from here to the club. I'm on closing."
Sherlock furrowed his brow, and Rose knew why. They had already had a little chat about her continuing to work at the Rendezvous strip club now that the pair of them held little regard for the entire adult entertainment industry and its exploitation of women. Sherlock hadn't known how to broach the subject, but last Saturday night, when Rose arrived at Baker Street after working at the club, and she had settled in for her long soak in Sherlock's tub, the detective had made himself comfortable on the floor of his bathroom, and commenced with the words, "So... the strip club."
Rose knew what he had wanted to discuss, and admitted to him that she had been thinking about leaving her job as a cloakroom attendant for some time, especially after many discussions with her neighbour, Tonya Small.
Rose had plans to discuss a salary increase in her present position at the home entertainment store. She practically ran Roche's accounts section, with her counter-part, Gus, being next to useless. Even when she wasn't at work, the staff would ring her at home rather than ask anything tricky of Gus. She deserved to be paid a higher salary, surely. And then she could afford to resign from the Rendezvous.
"I'm working on it, Sherlock," Rose said quietly, in response to his expression. "These things take time."
Sherlock's face softened and he made to reach for Rose once more, but she took a step backward.
"Sorry I couldn't be of assistance," she said in a business-like manner when she spied Kyle, head of sales, striding their way. She turned on her heels and left an unhappy Consulting Detective behind.
As Rose made it to the back corridor, she turned to check if Sherlock had been able to leave the store unmolested by other sales staff. She saw him striding purposefully for the entrance, customers and staff parting for him as he went. Rose smiled to herself. He had that air about him; people would know not to harass him. Rose also hoped he wasn't upset with her.
Not wanting Sherlock to remain dejected for long, she quickly tapped away at her phone, before entering her office. She hoped that her message would give him a warm feeling to take with him all the way home.
See you tonight. I love you.
Rose tucked her legs underneath her as she sipped her tea. Sundays in Baker Street had the potential to be blissful relaxing times with Sherlock Holmes, but as the wedding drew nearer, those moments were few and far between.
They were listening to classical music, and under normal circumstances that would also be conducive to having a relaxing time. They were taking a break from browsing online stores for a wedding present so Sherlock could create a compilation of classical waltzes for John and Mary to choose from for their wedding waltz. Sherlock had immediately dismissed John's choice of 'some nineties power ballad about a man and woman who don't actually love each other, or some rubbish'. He had insisted they learn to waltz and had spent a couple of afternoons teaching the reluctant doctor just how to do it properly. It turned out to be a bit embarrassing—for John at least—when Mrs Hudson walked in on them on one such occasion.
Rose also found the whole idea hysterical, but she didn't let Sherlock know that.
Still, the soothing music was continually interrupted by Sherlock remarking, "Nope, not that one," or "Yes, that's better than pop music," then pausing the music to note the track on a piece of paper.
The inability of the wedding couple to decide on a more traditional piece of music, along with not being able to finding a suitable wedding present for them was sending Sherlock's stress levels through the roof. Now and then he would look Rose's way while he was listening to a track, but he seemed to stare, unseeing, at her. Rose couldn't figure out what was going through his mind.
When Rose drifted over to Sherlock's computer and sat down at the living room table to research unique wedding gifts, she noticed that Sherlock either pensively stared at the wedding planning wall above the sofa, or he'd again gaze in the direction of the chair she had vacated. John's chair. She noticed him dropping his eyes, then sighing, before changing the track on his iPod.
It was so obvious to her now. He hadn't been looking at her at all. His eyes were drawn to John's chair whenever he thought about the impending wedding and what that meant to him. Sherlock's continual need to plan John's wedding, and take over every decision that the wedding couple needed to make, his general disinterest in his work, more specifically, solving cases without the help of John Watson, were all signs that he was fearing what he thought was the end of an era. Sherlock was worried about his best friend getting married. He missed his old flat mate.
Rose left her spot at the table, picked up her empty tea cup from the side table next to John's chair, then crossed the room to retrieve Sherlock's cup.
"Would you like a top up?" she asked Sherlock.
"No," he replied, without looking up from his iPod screen.
Rose left him and headed toward the kitchen. She thought she would forgive him this little bit of rudeness under the circumstances. As she made herself another cup of tea, Rose formulated an idea. To put it into action, though, she was going to need outside help.
Rose alternately fiddled with her napkin and the acrylic holder that displayed the lunchtime specials in the middle of the table. Her gaze took in the cafe at large, the door and the street outside through the window. When Mary Morstan appeared in the doorway, Rose was relieved that she did recognise her after all. She had been worried that she wouldn't remember what the bride-to-be looked like due to the stress surrounding their first meeting.
Rose gave her a small wave, when she saw Mary quickly scanning the other patrons of the café. She stood up, feeling awkward about how she should greet someone who was a stranger to her for the most part, but someone who Sherlock had entrusted to keep Rose's darkest secret.
"Lovely to see you again, Rose," Mary said pleasantly. Mary leant in, softly brushing Rose's cheek with hers while she lightly held Rose's arms. Rose was grateful that the older woman had initiated the greeting, even if it was just an air kiss.
"Thanks for coming," Rose said as they both stood across from one another. "Would you like to order your tea or coffee first? I'm just waiting on a coffee."
Rose had surreptitiously obtained Mary's mobile number from Sherlock's phone contacts on Sunday night when the detective was taking a shower. She had phoned her new confidante during her morning tea break on Monday using her office phone, hoping like hell that Mary would answer. Rose thought she would stammer out a, "Sorry, wrong number," if John were to pick up Mary's phone for whatever reason.
Fortunately for Rose, Mary had answered her phone, and after Rose had stuttered, "Oh, hi Mary, it's Rose, Sherlock's... um..." she was relieved to have Mary put her out of her misery and instantly cut in with a friendly greeting. Without too much preamble, Rose was able to arrange to meet Mary at a café near the home entertainment store in the early afternoon.
When Mary returned to their table, Rose complimented the bride-to-be on their wedding preparation choices so far. They shared a laugh about Sherlock's efforts with the scale model of the venue, the selection of the bridesmaid dress fabric, and his arguments with John over the precise meaning behind each of the bible readings the bridal couple had chosen.
When their beverages arrived, it seemed to be a good time to end the wedding small talk. With Rose feeling slightly more comfortable in Mary's company, she began explaining the reason for calling her.
"I'm worried about how much time and emotional investment Sherlock is placing in the wedding preparations. I mean, don't get me wrong. You've all worked so hard to get this far. And it's all looking amazing."
"Neither John nor I have worked as hard as Sherlock," Mary remarked, as she added sugar to her tea cup. "So I can understand your concern."
Rose offered a tiny smile in gratitude before venturing, "It's just that he has almost everything organised, but he seems more frantic than ever. If he makes any more phone calls double-checking and triple-checking everyone else's preparations, then he's going to put noses out of joint and actually start losing the bookings that are already in place."
Mary leaned back in her chair thoughtfully, her tea cup poised in the air. "So what should we do about him, do you think?"
Rose was relieved that Mary was immediately on the same page as her, and hadn't dismissed her concerns out of hand.
"Distract him," Rose replied. "Get him busy with something else. I'm worried that everything will come to an abrupt end once the wedding's over. He needs to put some energy into his other interests, before your wedding, I think. He hardly ever reads his emails unless they're wedding-related, and I know a lot of them are potential cases."
Mary quirked an eyebrow in interest. "He's not working on any cases?"
"Not that I've seen. He did look at one the other day, after I mentioned how full his inbox was getting, and he wanted to give me an example of how pointless some of the cases were. It probably took him twenty minutes to get a hacker friend of his to scour the General Register Office's database for somebody's birth details for some reason, and he used that information to solve it without even leaving the flat. But nothing since."
"So he's not doing any running around, putting his life in danger, that kind of thing?"
Rose shook her head, then added, "Not that I want him to work on those sort of cases."
"Oh, but he usually thrives on that kind of thing," Mary commented, a daredevil glint in her eye as she leant forward in her seat. "That's what we need for him, Rose."
"I'm sure it is," Rose agreed unconvincingly. However Mary's comment opened up an opportunity for Rose to bring the conversation around to the real favour she wanted of Mary Morstan. "But not without the support of a partner. You know Mary, I think he... I think he actually misses John. He probably equates working on those types of cases with having John by his side. Perhaps if you... No, sorry, that's thoughtless of me. You don't want Sherlock to take up all of John's time right now."
"No, no. God no, just the opposite," gushed Mary a little too enthusiastically. "John needs to get out and about himself. Look, Rose, if you want me to push John into encouraging Sherlock to work on cases again, I'll definitely oblige."
"You will?"
"Leave it with me," Mary said with a tiny wink. "We'll be at Baker Street later in the week." As she spoke, she drew out her phone and tapped away at it. "Sherlock set up an alarm on my phone telling me when the RSVP date is. Ah," she exclaimed as she made note of an entry in her calendar. "Since that date's tomorrow, he'll be anxious to finalise the seating plans for the reception."
"Yes, he is," Rose commented, smiling to herself at the memory of Sherlock ranting and pacing to the tune of, We need those RSVPs! Don't people know there are so many ways to arrange a group of over 60 people across seven tables. Have they no respect for deadlines?
"So I'll drag John along this time," Mary added. "He can get Sherlock looking at some of these cases."
"Thank you," Rose said, breathing out in relief and reaching for her coffee.
"Oh bugger," Mary exclaimed, frowning at her phone. "I'm going to have to switch the dates of the Rehearsal Dinner and the Stag night around. I forgot about that."
"Good luck telling Sherlock," Rose quipped, a tiny smile forming on her lips before sipping her coffee.
"Uh, yeah, thanks," Mary replied distractedly.
There was silence while Mary tapped away at her phone, then she placed it on the table beside her. "Coward's way out," she confessed, smiling sheepishly. "I've texted him."
"So the Stag night is...?"
"Not this weekend, but the next. And the Rehearsal Dinner will be the weekend after that. Makes more sense to have it the week before the wedding anyway."
"So is John okay with the format of the Stag night?"
"Oh yeah, no problems at all," Mary replied. "Relieved actually. Initially he was surprised that Sherlock had actually thought about it at all. But he's glad that Sherlock and his ex-army mates won't have to mix. I think John's quite chuffed that Sherlock's making the effort."
"He has put a lot of thought into it," Rose remarked, smiling ruefully when she reflected on Sherlock's turmoil at the time they had discussed his concerns.
"So, speaking of stags and things," Mary began, with a warm smile gracing her features. "I know you don't want to come to our wedding as Sherlock's plus one, but I would love it if you'd come to my Hen night."
Mary's invitation caught Rose by surprise, and she was sure she was too slow in masking her apprehension.
"I... um... thank you. That's very sweet of you to include me."
Mary reached out and gently patted Rose's hand. "Please think about. Don't feel as though you have to give me an answer now. I know you want to keep your relationship with Sherlock behind closed doors, but there's no reason why you can't be at my Hen night as a friend of mine."
"When is it?" Rose asked, trying to quell the rising panic she felt whenever there was a chance other people could discover her connection to Sherlock.
"This Saturday night."
The tightness in Rose's chest lessened a little at the realisation that she had an excuse of sorts. "I work on Saturday nights," she said apologetically.
"Well, think about it. If you want to come and can get the night off, that would be wonderful. You're more than welcome. Unfortunately it has to be this weekend because it's one of these rare occasions that Janine is actually in London."
"Janine?"
"My Maid of Honour. She's such a wag. You'll like her. So... where do you work?"
Rose gripped her coffee mug just a tad tighter. "At the..." She paused to clear her throat. "The Rendezvous."
"Oh?" Mary prompted her, with a slight tilt of her head.
"A gentlemen's club. It's in Shoreditch."
Mary's mouth formed a small 'o' and Rose could just imagine Mary's thought processes as her mind made incorrect conclusions about Rose's current occupation, based on her previous association with Sherlock Holmes.
"As a cloakroom attendant," Rose added, smiling mischievously. "I check coats. And the occasional hat. Sometimes scarves and... once an inflatable pig. You don't want to know."
Mary's face brightened, and then she commenced chuckling, prompting Rose to do the same.
"I'm sure you could tell some stories," Mary laughed, her eyes twinkling with a new affection for the younger woman.
"Yes. I believe I could."
Sherlock exhaled and studied his cigarette smoke as it dissipated through the air and away from the balcony. It had been months since his last smoking session on Rose's balcony. He realised he'd missed this routine, kicking back, with his legs perched up on the railing, waiting for Rose to return home.
It was early evening, mid-week, and he realised he and Rose hadn't engaged in a meaningful conversation at all this week so far. He had arrived at her flat a little after midnight on both Monday and Tuesday nights, because he'd only decided in the afternoons to alleviate his boredom by hanging out at Bart's. And the pathology labs were largely unoccupied late into the night.
He entered Rose's flat to find her already in bed asleep on both those occasions. He resisted the urge to wake her up, but when she rolled over and cuddled into him, primitive urges took over until they were both wide-awake and feeding their respective hungers until both were sated.
This afternoon, Sherlock avoided the pull of the pathology labs, and opted to get to work changing some of the light-bulbs in his little hidey-hole, the empty house, across from Rose's block of flats. He fixed some shelving to the wall that had come away and wondered what experiments he could set up and leave there undisturbed. He remained at number 23 Leinster Gardens until closer to the time that Rose was due home.
When he heard the click of the front door opening, he wondered if Rose would deduce his presence outside by noticing that he had left the sliding door to the balcony open a crack. He had done so in order to hear Rose's arrival.
He was not disappointed.
A minute or so later, Rose opened the door wider and stepped out.
"Hello," she said, a slight shiver in her voice since she had already discarded her coat when she had arrived home.
Sherlock leant his head back onto the chair, allowing Rose to bend down and kiss his forehead.
"This is new," she remarked, before turning to head back inside. "At least, a new old habit," she added after pausing in the doorway. "When did you take up smoking again?"
"I am an addict," Sherlock replied, taking a drag on his cigarette as if to emphasise the fact. "I merely alternate my methods of nicotine intake."
"Okay, fine. I'm just going to close the door properly."
Rose disappeared inside, leaving Sherlock to feel disappointed that she not only hadn't joined him, but her hello greeting wasn't as enthusiastic as it usually was. Of course, the only time they had ever shared a moment outside, was when Rose was toking. He was glad she hadn't indulged in that habit in recent months. It was also an indicator that he was a positive influence in her life. She had little to worry about, and therefore no need to get stoned.
Sherlock took a couple more drags of his cigarette, then discarded the butt in the ashtray on the table beside him. He drifted back inside, to find that Rose had changed into a tracksuit. He narrowed his eyes at her. This was different; he didn't like different.
"What are you doing?" he asked, when he spied Rose depositing her key to the flat into a pocket.
"I'm going for a walk. Won't be long."
"Since when?"
Rose smiled at Sherlock's puzzled expression. She crossed the room, stopping in front of him, and replied, "Since ages ago. You're never here this early. Sometimes I go walking with Tonya when she takes her dogs out." She gave Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek, not noticing his scowl at the mention of Tonya Small's name. She turned away from him and headed over to the front door. She called back, "Why don't you busy yourself cleaning up all those serviettes that are all over my bedroom floor? Looks like a tissue factory exploded in there."
Sherlock brooded as he removed his coat. This wasn't going to be an evening of fun.
Sherlock's mood darkened the longer Rose was away. He was mentally listing all of the things The Clarence House Cannibal could be telling Rose about him and their relationship as he shoved the used serviettes into a small plastic shopping bag. He cleared Rose's bedroom floor, and by the time Rose returned from her 'walk,' she found the detective stretched out along her sofa, remote control in hand, and scowling at the evening news.
"Not doing any work then?" Rose asked, as she breezed by to retrieve a drink of water from the kitchen sink.
"I was waiting for you," he answered unemotionally.
"For what?"
Sherlock swung his legs from the sofa and sat up. "So we can narrow the choice for the serviette design." He indicated a new, unopened packet of one hundred paper napkins on the coffee table in front of him.
Rose was silent as she slowly drank her water. Then she called to Sherlock that she was just going to take a shower first and asked if he was going to eat dinner with her tonight if they ordered in. Without waiting for his answer, Rose disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock turned up the volume on the news broadcast when he heard the familiar sounds of Mr Scanlan masturbating in the flat above.
When Rose returned from the shower, she had to yell at the detective to turn the volume down.
"What the hell are you doing?" she asked in alarm.
"Couldn't you hear that?"
"Hear what? I couldn't hear anything except for the news. For God's sake, I'm going to get complaints about that tomorrow morning."
"How could you not hear him moaning and carrying on?"
"Who?"
"Scanlan. Well obviously he's finished now. Takes him about six minutes, give or take."
"What? …Oh," Rose said in shock realisation, when she remembered that Sherlock had informed her all those months ago—soon after he came back to life—that her neighbour often took care of himself during the evening news.
"Well..." she began, at a loss for words. "Are you sure that's what he's doing?"
"What else could it be. Now are we going to do this," he said, pulling the packet of serviettes toward him, "or are you going to be busy emailing losers about girls who do or don't like them or some other pointless nonsense?"
Rose frowned at Sherlock's very obvious dig at her clients. "That's not very sensitive of you."
"Sensitive?" Sherlock repeated in distaste. "Since when is that news to you?"
Rose heaved a sigh in resignation. So they were going to have one of those nights. Her preference was to hide away in her bedroom and tend to her clients' needs in private, rather than put up with Sherlock's huffing and puffing all evening. But she had vowed to herself to give him a little leeway in regard to his rudeness, at least until the wedding was over. And she wasn't expected to start her crisis centre work until 10pm anyway. Surely she had enough energy left to indulge him until then?
Rose sank to the sofa beside Sherlock and ignored his remark.
"So," she began. "How many designs have we got left. Four, wasn't it?"
"Yes, three that were mine, and one that was some rubbish you made up."
"A swan," Rose muttered, her cheeks burning as she tugged a serviette out of the packet. "And I found it on YouTube. The same place you copied all of yours from."
They folded in silence, with Sherlock completing a tulip, a rabbit, and the Sydney Opera House. In that time, Rose finished her swan.
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, gesturing toward his own serviette collection. "We can narrow it down to two, and give John and Mary the choice. Well, just Mary. John will probably wipe his nose with one of them."
"Fantastic. I really like the bunny. What do you think of my swan?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Are you sure that's a swan? It looks like a duck. Or if you hold it this way," he said, tilting Rose's creation on a ninety degree angle, "it could be a man kneeling down, bowing his head as he waits for his impending execution."
"Only you would see that."
"So we'll have the duck—"
"Swan."
"—and my Sydney Opera House as the final designs. Mary can be the judge. Winner gets to have their orgasm last."
Rose's head spun upon hearing Sherlock's last statement. "W-what?" she stammered.
"The winner gets to have their orgasm last. What's so hard to understand about that?"
When Rose furrowed her brow, Sherlock rolled his eyes at having to give an explanation.
"When we have sex, some of the time we come within seconds of each other, and that's great. But on those other occasions, wouldn't you rather roll over and go to sleep after your climax, rather than have to deal with the other person? That's my preference."
"Deal with? That's... Sherlock, you're... just.. " Rose spluttered. Finally she said, "No. No, I wouldn't. Because I care about you and your pleasure at that particular point in time."
"Well, I think you're lying," the detective said rather calmly. "And that's probably because you've had sex thousands of times during which you would deny your own pleasure. Most people would rather roll over, and... Where are you going?"
Rose had abruptly stood, bashing her knee on the coffee table as she did so, also making a casualty out of her origami bird. It took a swan dive to the ground, as she cursed heavily and hobbled over toward kitchen.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, not used to hearing Rose swearing like a trooper over such a small thing as a bump on the knee.
"Yes!" she exclaimed, doubling over as she rubbed her knee. "Actually, no," she added, after straightening up. Her face was flushed, and her eyes swam with tears. "I could probably put up with you insinuating that I've fucked hundreds of different men; that's a fair call. I've never even estimated. I was a fucking whore for a few years after all. And some of my crisis centre clients are probably attention-seeking losers who should really get a life. How could I tell the difference? I'm a bit of a failure as a therapist, as it turns out. And yes, drown out the fucking wanker upstairs all you want without apologising for turning up the telly full volume, by all means, but that..." Rose said, with a slight tremor in her voice and gesturing in the direction of the coffee table, "...that is a fucking swan. I perfected it. I went through fourteen fucking paper napkins to perfect it on Friday. It's a swan, Sherlock, so take your Sydney Opera House, and your fucking insensitive ill-mannered selfish orgasm, and piss off home. I've had enough."
Rose turned abruptly, and swiftly disappeared into her bedroom, leaving a slightly stunned Consulting Detective behind.
.
Author's Note:
Sorry about the abrupt ending, but the chapter got too long and I'm trying to keep these chapters to a reasonable size in contrast to my other romance fic (Do check out The Mutual Suicide Pact if you want to indulge in a longer story!). I've split this chapter into two, which means the next one is almost done. Let me know when you want it! Getting close to the wedding now. We're three weeks away (in a fictional sense).