Chapter 7: Oh, John, I Envy You So Much

"I didn't make an appointment," Sherlock stated impassively, staring down at Rose who stood shivering on his threshold.

He really can kill you with just one look can't he, Rose thought, feeling belittled under Sherlock's gaze. "I know," she responded in a small voice. "I just came to apologise."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. Apologies directed at the high-functioning sociopath were largely ignored. If he felt slighted by someone, he would either feel wounded and sulk for days, weeks even, or ignore them until he needed them for something. Rose was in the latter category.

Rose quickly added, "I came by yesterday at midday. I cancelled my lunch, but your landlady said you were out."

"I was out."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Well, uncomfortable for Rose. Sherlock just continued to stare at her. Rose eventually asked if she could come in, adding the excuse that it was cold out. To emphasise this she hugged her body, hoping that dramatising her discomfort would thaw even the coldest heart.

"I thought you came to apologise," Sherlock remarked tonelessly.

Apparently not the coldest heart then.

"I did. I'm sorry." Then she added, "I'm sorry I didn't respect your wishes."

Sherlock thought for a moment, as if digesting her words. "Apology accepted."

He shut the door, leaving Rose bewildered on the pavement.

Sherlock mounted the stairs, two at a time, and upon entering his flat he went back to his laptop which was resting on a side table beside his armchair. He sighed as he read an email from Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Missing Turner masterpiece. Dull. He quickly scanned the rest of his emails. Dull, boring, repetitive. Where have all the serial killers gone? Didn't anybody give nasty children pets in the nineties? Then he heard the sound of the downstairs door opening, and voices on the stairwell. Next he heard the regular cadence of his flatmate's footsteps, interspersed with lighter, swifter steps.

Oh fuck me, he deduced savagely, and thoughts of which stray prostitute had followed John home entered his cerebral cortex.

"Look who I found shivering outside on our doorstep," John beamed, striding into the living room followed by Rose. "Isn't the doorbell working?"

"Evidentally not," Sherlock replied, drawing his lips in a thin line, his eyes following Rose's movements into his flat. John, I'm disappointed in you. She obviously preyed on the weak and libidinous.

"Hi," Rose said shyly. "Um, I just came to ask your and John's permission to include your full names in my bibliography."

"An email would've sufficed," Sherlock muttered, looking back at his screen.

John shot him a look. "He means 'Yes'. Ah, tea?" he asked Rose as Sherlock tutted.

Rose thanked John then walked over to Sherlock and sat opposite him in John's armchair. Sherlock looked up and frowned at her. John made excuses about needing to use the bathroom and hastened along the corridor at the back of the kitchen.

Sherlock scowled. He thought he was done with Rose. He had almost made up his mind that sex with a prostitute in his own flat was never going to happen after his visit to the brothel. Having her show up on his doorstep uninvited seemed to disregard his own thought processes and decision making. For no other reason than that, he decided to stare more intently at his screen, and pretend Rose wasn't there.

"I was thinking of doing something for you by way of an apology," she said, breaking his concentration which left him fuming.

Sherlock sighed. "Doing something for me?"

"Sucking you off until you come, something like that."

She said it so casually that Sherlock wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. His eyes darted to the door John had left through. Asking if everything was related to sex as far as she was concerned only served to encourage her more. Even warning her that John could walk in at any moment made her offer to do him too.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose. She was serious. She was offering herself as easily as one would volunteer to buy a packet of crisps for you from a vending machine.

He continued to scrutinise her, then spoke in a low voice.

"Why are you so intent on getting my forgiveness? What do you care what I think of you? Is it the money? The income you perceive you've lost because I'll no longer be your client?"

Rose leaned back in John's chair, deep in thought.

"To be honest, yes. I was counting on that two hundred quid. I need it. I barely make two hundred in an entire Saturday night. And you know what I have to put up with to get that. Two hundred from you is easy money."

"Easy?"

"You hardly need me to do anything. You're clean, and ... decent. You're respectful, and you like to talk, which is quite pleasant. I can relax with you. One hour in your company would be easy. We'd probably only fuck twice in that time." She glanced away for a moment. "You said you appreciate my honesty, so there it is. I need the money."

Sherlock just stared at her, and opened his mouth to reply when he heard John returning.

John cleared his throat. He wondered what Shelley and Sherlock had been discussing that had left an air of tension in the room.

God, Sherlock is a rude bastard sometimes, he thought.

Rose stood up, and walked around the chair to the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm.

"Can I help with anything?" she asked John.

"Er, no, I think I'm right here. So..." he asked conversationally pouring the tea as Rose examined Sherlock's apparatus on the sideboard, "Are you working? It's a tough gig being a student these days."

Sherlock almost choked at John's question.

"Part-time," Rose said slowly, looking up at Sherlock while John's back was turned.

"Helping...people..." she added, staring at Sherlock, her mouth forming a sly smile.

"Oh?" remarked John in interest.

"People who can't get up...themselves. The elderly mostly. Those who can't get out and about. I do shopping for them, that sort of thing."

"Oh, that's pretty decent of you," John commented, walking over to her and handing her a tea cup. "Shall we sit?"

"Here is fine."

Rose perched herself onto a bar stool, positioned to face Sherlock, while John leant against the kitchen table facing Rose. Sherlock glared at them both.

"So what do you like to do in your spare time, John?" Rose asked innocently.

"Huh," John managed a small chuckle, "When I'm not chasing this one," he indicated Sherlock, "around the country-side after criminals I like to have a quiet cuppa and read a book."

"Lovely," replied Rose. "And do you spend much time with your...girlfriend?"

Sherlock shot her daggers.

"Ah," remarked John. "I think I made my last girlfriend a bit angry."

"Oh, I can't imagine why," Rose replied, giving John a sweet smile.

He grinned back at her. "No, I tried to crawl back to her by offering to walk her dog... then I realised it was my previous girlfriend who had the dog."

Rose laughed at this and leant over to touch John's arm. "That's so charming!" she remarked.

Sherlock was horrified, so he commented, "Don't forget that lovely doctor you met in Dartmoor, John. Dr. Mortimer wasn't it? John likes the intelligent, classy type. Women with high morals and intelligence."

"Yes, thank you," John said turning his head to Sherlock. "I didn't think you paid much attention to my dating life."

"And how about you, Sherlock?" Rose asked.

"Huh, Sherlock doesn't date," John remarked. "He's married to his work. Can't you tell?"

"Got any cash on you, John?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Er, what?"

"Cash? Or are you broke again...sending money to that sister of yours. John never has any money left to spend on his own entertainment," he said, directing his last statement to Rose.

John turned around and stared at Sherlock as if he'd gone mad.

"Well," said Rose, hopping off the stool. "I should get going."

John muttered noises of disappointment with Sherlock feeling sickened by his flatmate's obvious responses to Rose's pathetic attempts at flirting with him. She even recited his credentials back to him, emphasising the title Doctor, and keeping up the illusion she needed it for her bibliography.

After she thanked John, Rose asked Sherlock if he'd walk her out, confusing John in the process.

She started down the stairs as John said quietly, "Uh, Sherlock."

"Yes?" Sherlock queried, halting his tread before the living room door.

"Just...be...careful," John said, enunciating each word slowly.

Not a moron, John. "What?"

"I don't think she's..."

"What?" Sherlock asked again, feeling impatient for John to spit out whatever misguided feelings he had about Rose.

"Just read between the lines, okay?"

"I don't know what you mean." He really didn't.

"I'll...talk to you when you get back up."

Sighing, Sherlock descended the staircase after Rose. He closed the door to the street after them and stared at Rose, whose back was turned. She finally turned around to face him, wiping tears from her eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her and scowled. "That doesn't work on me," he stated simply.

"Oh shut it!" she replied, her phony tears immediately drying up. "Nothing works on you. You're an emotionless android."

Been called worse, Sherlock mused. He was still pissed off with Rose and even more so now that she had spent time flirting with John.

"He'd never pay for sex," he said simply.

Rose had heard that one before. "They all pay for sex eventually," she responded bitterly. "They just don't know it."

Sherlock looked away from Rose, scanning the street, watching everybody going about their business while he was negotiating with a prostitute on his doorstep. He looked back down at her and said, "One hundred and fifty pounds."

She gazed back at him for a few seconds before responding. "I don't think that's worth my while."

"Fine," he said, and stepped back towards his threshold, putting his hand on the door in an effort to leave her.

"Thirty pounds," she said.

"What?"

"Thirty pounds is how much I get to keep out of the fifty you give me at the brothel. Twenty goes to using the premises and for security."

"Security?" Sherlock mocked.

When Rose nodded, Sherlock asked, "So how much would you get out of two hundred, for an hour's work there?"

"One twenty."

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head.

"Which is why two hundred with you is so..." Rose's eyes filled with tears once more. "An hour spent with you could mean I don't have to do Saturday nights," she whispered.

Sherlock sighed and looked skyward. He didn't like to be played. But the decision whether to have or not have sex in his flat was still tipped slightly in favour of the former, in spite of Rose's phony waterworks.

"One eighty," he said softly. "And stop flirting with John."


Sex in flat, take two.

John was at work. Sherlock knew this as he had watched him go. John's shift was to start at eight. He had left at seven thirty. Sherlock's appointment with Rose was at nine. Morning sex. A good start to the day. And if John for some reason didn't leave for work and was still at home by 8:30, Sherlock could leave Rose a text sent to the mobile she only kept for the purpose's of her sex work. Sherlock had the privilege of being the first client to be in possession of this private phone number.

"Don't ever ring me for a 'chat'. The phone will be turned off until one hour before an appointment time. And I'll only check it intermittently throughout the day," she had advised him.

Sherlock wasn't as nervous as the first time he'd waited for her at home, since Rose had already been in their flat twice before, and he felt a little bit more in control. He was doing her a favour as much as she was doing him.

Doing him a favour, that is.

Well, and doing him.

John's warning seemed a bit odd, although Sherlock wasn't sure how much John had read in between what Sherlock had considered to be very brief and curt interactions between himself and Rose/Shelley. John subtly tried to suggest that Shelley was trying to lead Sherlock on in order to get more information out of him for her research paper. Sherlock seized on that idea and gave John the impression that Shelley was trying to sweet talk Sherlock into letting her accompany him on a new case or two for the purposes of her paper, and he kept rebuffing her.

He was standing at the kitchen counter, slowly reading a newspaper—well, not actually reading it, turning the pages slowly as his mind wandered—when his doorbell buzzed. He sprinted downstairs before Mrs Hudson could get it.

Rose's expression was warm and bright. "Hi!" she said.

"Hefty load," Sherlock commented, indicating her bag full of books as they made their way upstairs.

"I'm going to uni straight after. Busy day."

They entered the living room, with Rose watching curiously as Sherlock locked the door behind her. He saw her looking and commented, "Landlady."

"Oh. Well, I just need to, ah, freshen up? Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yes, it's just through here," Sherlock gestured, striding through the kitchen with Rose following him. "And the other door leads into the bedroom. My bedroom," he added smiling sheepishly.

"Thanks. I guess I'm already prepared for your visit at the brothel, but here I'll have to spend a bit of time getting ready. We can start the timer after I'm out if you like?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'd prefer you didn't use that timer. It irritates me. Can't we just look at the clock and add an hour?"

"It's just a way of ensuring there's no confusion. The timer goes off, we both hear it, and that way nobody gets mistaken."

"Or we could just look at the clock and say it's nine oh two now, so we should stop at ten oh two."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Rose, fully confident at his own logical way of thinking.

"I'll just set the timer. It's how I work. Let's not change the arrangement now."

"We didn't have any arrangement regarding the timer."

"We had an arrangement to keep the same conditions as at the brothel."

Sherlock stared at her, already starting to feel tense at not being able to get his own way in his bedroom of all places.

"Fine," he said eventually.

"Thanks," she replied, but she remained where she was standing.

Finally Rose raised an eyebrow, prompting Sherlock to exclaim, "Oh!"

He reached into his pocket, drew out his wallet and the cash, then counted out one hundred and eighty pounds for Rose. She thanked him and folded the money into her hand. She took it, along with her bag, into the bathroom.

Sherlock closed his bedroom door, then began undressing. He was naked and ready for Rose once she had finished in the bathroom. She was dressed as she usually did in the brothel—wrapped in her dressing gown. Without really thinking about it, Sherlock lightly pulled his bed sheet over his lower half.

"I love your bedroom," Rose remarked, walking around the bed to the shelves that adorned the far wall. "It's almost as interesting as your living room with all these artefacts." She shrugged her dressing gown from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as she picked up a small wooden carving from the shelf. Carefully stroking the polished surface with her thumb she turned to Sherlock and raised her eyebrows.

"German," he stated.

"Mmm," she mused, and replaced the carving. She browsed the remaining shelves as if she were in a supermarket.

"This looks rather ancient," she commented, picking up a tattered-looking book.

"From Persia. A first edition."

"Oh," she said, flipping through the novel. "And how do these things get to be in your possession?" she asked, replacing the book.

"Work. Cases I solve for people who can't pay."

"Really?" Rose remarked, picking up a wooden dart gun and running her fingers along the black design, which had been carved by burning sticks. "Does it work?"

"Never tried it."

Sherlock watched Rose as she slowly moved along the shelf. He cleared his throat. "Are we going to get started?" he asked.

Rose looked at him for a moment, a sly smile spreading across her face. "We have."

Sherlock looked at her, perplexed, as Rose walked seductively back around the bed.

"Pull your sheet down," she suggested, and when Sherlock didn't, Rose gently slid it across the bed and away from his legs, revealing Sherlock's full arousal.

"Oh, my," she whispered, "Visual stimulation."

"That's not conclusive," Sherlock replied, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Same?"

"Mmm," he murmured, lying down fully and feeling perfectly relaxed against his own pillow, amongst his own things, in his own bedroom. And once Rose had commenced he even put his hands down, tangling his fingers in Rose's hair, which took her by surprise.

Sherlock got so carried up in the process that he couldn't bring himself to stop her as he normally did. She's going for the apology, he thought curiously, then he moaned, almost passing the point of no return. Then Rose stopped.

"Keep going?" she whispered.

"No, no..." Sherlock replied almost inaudibly.

But Rose had taken her cue and had mounted him. And before she had even established a regular rhythm, he was already moaning and pulling at her.

Game over.

.


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