Chapter 12: Goodbye Mr Holmes

"I've just had the most odd encounter," John remarked, striding into the living room, upon finishing work for the day.

"Don't tell me," Sherlock intoned and not looking up from his laptop. "You were kidnapped by one of Mycroft's sexy assistants and ravished in the back of a black unmarked government vehicle."

John cleared his throat, a sure sign that he was struggling to come up with the right words. Sherlock slowly looked up in curiosity when the doctor failed to chuckle dryly in response to the detective's deadpan.

"Er...not actually far from the mark."

"What?" Sherlock asked, a note of incredulity creeping into his voice as he shut his laptop lid. This was a new one, even for Mycroft.

"That young woman...that student...Shelley. Remember? She was writing a paper about your cases."

Sherlock tensed upon hearing Rose's sex worker alias. He lowered his voice a notch and asked, "What did she want?"

"I think she was asking me to give her money to go on a date with her."

John's words circled around Sherlock's head, not really making sense.

"Sorry, what?" he said again.

"Shelley, that psychology student. She was downstairs...just passing, she said. Did she come up here?"

"No," Sherlock stated emphatically.

It had been three weeks since he'd given Rose an orgasm. The following week he had to travel to Cornwall for a small case and hadn't booked in another appointment with Rose that week. There wasn't any other suitable day when John was out of the flat. Then she'd said her boyfriend was in town for two weeks, so he hadn't even bothered contacting her. He was toying with the idea of texting her after having three spontaneous erections in as many days (thankfully he was alone and in his flat on each occasion), but now this.

"Oh, well, she was making small talk," John continued, "implying we should go out for a drink sometime, then she hit me up for fifty quid."

"To go out with her?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"No, I think she wanted to borrow it, but then it was heavily implied that we could have more than just drinks as a result."

Thoughts flitted through Sherlock's mind. Heavily implied? Rose would've had to be as subtle as a sledgehammer before John Watson even had an inkling as to what was happening, even for a man who actively sought out the opposite sex.

So what is she up to? Then he remembered his eager-to-date flatmate and John's stupid decisions when it came to dating. He narrowed his eyes as he asked, "Did you give her the money?"

"No, I don't have any cash on me...n-not that I would have," John hastily added.

"And what's this got to do with Mycroft?"

"What? Oh. Nothing."

"So why did you say I wasn't far from the mark?"

"Because," John began, slowly, deliberately, as if Sherlock could get the wrong end of the stick at any moment. "I was being flirted at by a... fairly attractive woman?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, grateful that his brother hadn't hired a prostitute to seduce John Watson for whatever reason.

"And she said we should all go out some time," John continued. "The three of us—meaning you as well, and she left it at that. Has she been in contact with you since she was last here?"

"No," Sherlock replied a little too hastily, opening his laptop lid again. He clenched his jaw. Rose was propositioning John. Was Sherlock not enough for her? No. Wait. It was the money she was after. Not Sherlock's company. How could he make such a mistake? And what did he care anyway.

"Mmm," John remarked pensively, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Just be wary of her if she does."

John left to retire to his room as Sherlock pulled out his phone from his pocket. He stared at Rose's contact number for a moment, wondering why this bothered him so much. She was a prostitute. An independent business woman. She could be fucking the entire C.I.D of Scotland Yard for all he cared, but his flatmate was off limits, surely?

Before thinking too much longer about it, Sherlock sent a message to Rose which read, Need to talk. NOT an appointment. Usual day & time. Baker St or a coffee shop of your choice.

Then he left it there. He received a reply two hours later. Baker St, it said.


Sherlock was surprised by Rose's appearance when he answered the door that morning. Her face was unusually pale and thin. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. Nor did she smell like her usual well-groomed self.

"Why isn't this an appointment?" she asked as soon as she was inside.

"Upstairs," Sherlock hissed, then he ascended the stairs rapidly, with Rose struggling to keep up behind him.

He stood at his living room door, waiting for Rose to enter, then he shut it behind her.

"Why were you propositioning John?" he began, his voice struggling to remain even.

"What? Is that what this is about?" Rose fiddled with the strap on her bag and shifted uneasily. "That's none of your business. What I do in my own time has nothing to do with you."

"We had an agreement," he stated, giving her a baleful glare.

"No, we didn't. You said not to flirt with him! Those were your words. I said I was going to proposition him, and you didn't voice any objection only to say he wouldn't be interested."

"I thought you were joking! Of course he's not interested."

"Why would I joke about getting more clients? And you're wrong. I could see he was interested. Almost. I... I just have to work on him a bit more. This is business. I met him through you. It's called networking." Rose seem to become emboldened by her own word choice. She stood just that little bit taller. "I'm networking," she said again, thus confirming in her own mind her intention.

Sherlock looked at Rose for a moment, his mounting anger reaching a plateau. He couldn't believe she thought any male was fair game and hers to sell her body to. His own flatmate! But there was a marked desperation in her eyes. One he'd not seen before from her. Was it drugs? Was she working the streets now?

He didn't want to get involved, and he no longer desired her company. There was too much... emotion exuding from her person.

But most of all, he didn't want her propositioning his flatmate.

"Leave," he commanded, opening the door again for Rose.

"What?"

"You heard me. Out. And don't ever come back to Baker Street again. And that goes for the actual street. Take your solicitous intentions to the east end. Commercial Street may be more to your liking."

"What? Sherlock."

Rose couldn't believe what was happening. The last time she had seen Sherlock they had ended on friendly enough terms. She had shown him how to bring her to orgasm, and then she had finished him off in the bedroom with a fairly textbook head job. That was the first time Rose had brought Sherlock to climax through oral sex alone. He appeared to have enjoyed the experience.

Once she'd finished dressing in his bathroom that morning, they'd had a friendly, if almost flirtatious exchange. Well, she had flirted; Sherlock had simply stood there with what looked like a smile ghosting his lips.

But he had given her another twenty pound tip, and she had kissed him on the cheek before she left. It had been a pleasant morning's work.

It had been three weeks since then, and because of both their schedules, they hadn't been able to coordinate another meet up. And then her world had fallen apart and she realised she needed another source of income if she couldn't rely on a steady stream from Sherlock Holmes alone. The escort business was fraught with risks. Who would be more trustworthy a client than John Watson? And he was a doctor. He was probably loaded.

But her decision to approach Sherlock's flatmate had backfired. Now she was going to lose Sherlock, too.

"What about us?" she asked, her voice tight and strained. "And our agreement?"

"There is no us. I simply don't require your services anymore. This is business."

"Why?"

"I've got all I wanted from you. I've told you before: physiological needs are secondary. If you're going to be drumming up business in the street—"

"I'm an escort now," Rose said in a hollow voice. "Not a prostitute."

"Sorry. Is there a difference?"

Why are you so cold, she thought. Have I really offended you?

She was finding it difficult to maintain her composure under his indifferent exterior. The last week had been the absolute worst for her. She didn't need this on top of it all.

"Sherlock—"

"Please leave."

"I have nowhere else to go," she choked before dropping her head and bringing a hand to her face. Her eyes moistened, but she didn't want Sherlock to see her like this. She didn't want to burden him with her melodrama. "Please," she all but whispered.

"Not my problem."

His words were devoid of emotion. Rose slowly raised her head and locked eyes with him. Hers brimming with tears, his cool and unaffected.

Sherlock held onto the door until Rose dropped her gaze and turned from him. The detective felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

The Woman.

Are you expecting me to beg? she'd pleaded.

Yes.

Please.

Sherlock watched while Rose crossed the landing, then he swiftly closed the door on her retreating form.


"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed.

There was the doorbell again. He was going to have to do something more permanent to it. John had a new one installed after Sherlock had shot at the old device.

He reluctantly tromped downstairs and strode toward the front door. He could hear the landlady talking to someone in her kitchen. He tutted in irritation at having to leave the comfort of his armchair when there was a perfectly good living specimen downstairs who could've done his bidding for him.

After he reefed open the door to the street, he was stunned at who he found waiting for him.

"Hi!" said Rose, upon seeing Sherlock.

He scowled down at her.

Rose looked completely different. Her face was bright and cheery, her eyes clear, her hair was in a neat bun, and she wore a smart suit. It had been two weeks since he had dismissed her from his flat.

"Don't worry," she began with a laugh, "I'm not here to proposition you. I've come to say thank you and goodbye!"

"Because you didn't get to say goodbye a fortnight ago? Highly unnecessary. I really didn't miss it, and I didn't think any less of you."

"No, it's not that," Rose responded, her expression struggling to remain pleasant despite Sherlock's rudeness. "I—I'm leaving London actually."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Why should he care?

"I'm starting a new life—"

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"Good for you," he said, and he made to shut the door on her.

"Sherlock!"

The Consulting Detective emitted an audible tut. He hoped narrowing his eyes would get Rose to hurry things along a little. Why did people always have a story to tell?

"I'm going to Cardiff and I wanted to clear the air between us. I decided it would be good for my mental health if I—"

"Your mental health?"

"Yes. To make sure there wasn't any ill-feeling left between us, and to have closure on my—"

"Closure?" These were all words John spoke once upon a time. Words to do with having a therapist.

Rose sighed at Sherlock's constant interruptions. Wearily she added in a low voice, "I'm trying to end my life as a prostitute here in London before starting my new career. I thought by saying goodbye to—"

"—to all your clients? You'll never get out of London at this rate."

A door opening and hurried footsteps and voices interrupted their exchange. Sherlock turned to see a heavy-set, balding man striding the length of the passageway from his landlady's kitchen toward him. Mrs Hudson followed at his heels.

"—and I can finish up tomorra," the man said gruffly.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, when she spied her lodger standing in the open doorway. "Don't consult with clients on the doorstep. It makes the place look untidy."

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock muttered. And he spun around and made a bid for the stairs.

Rose wasn't sure if she was expected to follow Sherlock up or not, but she hesitantly stepped inside anyway.

The landlady had returned her attention to the tradesman, who was measuring a spot on the wall from the ceiling cornice.

Rose hastened upstairs. Sherlock's long stride had him already in his living room and once again seated in his armchair by the time Rose joined him. He looked up in surprise as if he hadn't expected her to follow.

Rose stopped in the middle of the rug, her heart racing from her sudden sprint up one flight of stairs.

"I'm not saying goodbye to everybody," she said in her bid to continue their conversation. She paused to get her breath back. "Just the one client I actually liked."

Rose's words jolted Sherlock away from his automatic defence mechanism of saying something rude in response. The one client I actually liked.

This wasn't something Sherlock heard every day. If he were among a pool of likely candidates, it wouldn't never be the detective-genius that anyone would pick to be the one most liked. The one deemed the most clever, perhaps.

Sherlock slowly rose from his seat, fastening the single button on his jacket as he took a couple of steps toward her. Suddenly this was a conversation worth having, because quite possibly he would like to hear more about why he was the most appealing in a long list of clients Rose had fucked.

"Why are you leaving?" he asked. Most likely she had already told him and he had dismissed the information as being boring or irrelevant.

"I've graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology," she replied.

"Really?"

"I was earning money as a sex worker while I studied at uni, remember?" Of course Sherlock remembered. Sort of. "And so I've won an internship in Cardiff," Rose continued. "I'm going to be a psychologist some day."

"Oh," Sherlock said, suddenly seeing Rose in a whole new light. "Right. Okay."

A warm smile spread across Rose's face. "And... I wanted to say thank you as well."

Here it comes, Sherlock thought. Glowing praise for his prowess in bed.

"My independent research project, my case study, it received top marks thanks to you."

"Sorry, what?"

"Quite the insight it was."

Somewhere in the dim recesses of Sherlock's Mind Palace was the memory that Rose was going to use an interview she'd had with John Watson about Sherlock's cases—the interview that was conducted one very awkward afternoon in Baker Street. It was for a psychology essay she was writing, he recalled.

"Oh," he said. "The psyche of the criminal mind. Hardly ground-breaking."

Rose's expression turned sheepish. "No," she said. "I didn't end up writing that one."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but before he could ask her to clarify her statement, Rose added, "Sexual arousal: visual stimulation and an evolving experience. A case study of a virgin and a prostitute."

"What?"

"I didn't use any real names, don't worry," Rose hastened to add, and smiling slyly. "And I wrote it as an observer, as if I'd conducted interviews with both the sex worker and her client."

For once, Sherlock was shocked into silence. He blinked rapidly a couple of times before stammering, "You... you mean... you..."

"Documented our encounters. Yes."

At that statement, Sherlock attempted to recall each and every sexual encounter he'd had with Rose, and tried to imagination how they would sound when written into an academic paper.

"How about tea?" he asked, and he swiftly made for the kitchen.

Behind him, Rose chuckled lightly.

"Thanks. That would be lovely."

Rose chatted about her career options: psychologist, therapist...perhaps sex therapist, she had added facetiously. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows at her as he sipped his tea.

"No, I think I'll be saving up all my sexual encounters for myself from now on," Rose commented thoughtfully. "So what will you do now? I can recommend a couple of agencies if you like? You don't want to be going back to a brothel now do you?"

"Ah, no," Sherlock said, draining the last of his tea. "I've ended that particular chapter in my life. Back to masturbating on the rare occasion I find myself with an erection."

"Oh, that's a shame! Think of all the women who are missing out on your talents!"

Talents, Sherlock thought, a faint smile gracing his lips. His talents were wide and varied that's for sure. But dating? Never.

"I don't need that kind of headache," he remarked. "I'm happy to give John a hard time about his efforts whenever I get the chance."

"I'm sorry about John," Rose said, her expression growing pensive. "That was bad form."

"Yes, well he got over it fairly quickly," Sherlock said dismissively.

Rose's insides bubbled with guilt. She had been ashamed about the whole incident. She hated the feeling of having Sherlock think lowly of her. "I was talking about you," she answered sincerely.

He shrugged. "I know you were desperate."

"We all do stupid things when we're desperate."

"Yes you do, don't you?"

Rose smiled wanly in response. "My boyfriend had broken up with me that week..."

Sherlock stifled an eyeroll. It seems he didn't escape her story-telling after all.

"...and my flatmate left without paying her share of the rent. Of course my parents were upset that I'd let a nice young man go. I was worried about my uni results too..."

Her words washed over Sherlock. He tried to remain attentive for the sake of courtesy, but he found it pretty tough going. He did get the gist of what she was saying. Everything bad seem to happen at once, and now she had her fairytale ending—an internship, the prospect of a new career in a new city. How wonderful.

Except...

Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain.

Moriarty, Sherlock thought darkly. Where is he?

"Sherlock?"

The detective snapped himself out of his morose thoughts. Rose was looking at him with her eyebrows raised. Evidently she had posed a question.

"So where is John?" she asked again.

"Oh, buying groceries," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively, "or getting cash out. Not to spend on prostitutes though."

Rose smiled weakly, her heart suddenly beating dully in her chest. "I'm going to miss this. Our conversations. You know, you were the nicest client I've ever had."

"The pleasure was all mine," Sherlock replied, a tiny twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "And quite literally too."

Rose laughed lightly, then added, "Except for the very last time."

Sherlock gave Rose a warm smile, an expression that tugged lightly on Rose's heart strings. It was quite a rare sight, his smile, directed at her. She decided that now was a good time to leave.

"I should be going," she said, slowly standing up. "I'm meeting up with some uni friends to celebrate."

Sherlock stood as well and carried the tea tray to the kitchen while Rose slid on her jacket and slung her bag over her shoulder. Sherlock strolled back into the living room, his hands in his pockets, after he'd deposited the tray. Why his heart began to thunder in his chest was a mystery to him.

"Goodbye Sherlock," Rose said, her eyes beginning to sting.

She crossed the floor to stand in front of him and kissed him lightly on the cheek as she had done so many times before. When he gazed down at her, she dropped her belongings and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer for a hug. What the hell, she thought. I don't care what he thinks of me now. I'm having a hug. She was surprised, however, when Sherlock took his hands out of his pockets and lightly embraced her back.

"Thank you," she whispered, holding him tightly, her eyes misting over. "Take care of yourself."

Holding her in his arms and smelling the faint scent from her shampoo, soap and perfume, triggered a very recent memory for Sherlock: the last time he'd had sex with Rose. And once that thought was in his mind, every other encounter, the exact physicality of them, joined in his sensory recall.

This was a more appropriate goodbye, he concluded. The woman who'd taken his virginity, who'd let him conduct experiments on her physiological responses to his ever-growing skill-set between the sheets, deserved more than the abrupt dismissal he'd given her previously.

"I hope Cardiff treats you kindly," Sherlock replied softly, not being able to produce a more poignant sentiment for the moment.

He rubbed her back gently as he heard her sniffing. She didn't let go. She turned her head and kissed his neck, her lips lingering there for a moment longer. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the flutter of her breath on his skin. When Sherlock pulled back Rose lifted her hand to his face and kissed him on the cheek again. She held his face as he looked down at her.

She whispered, "The orgasm I had with you was the last one I had."

Sherlock smiled weakly. He turned his head, and pressed his lips briefly to her cheek. "Goodbye Rose," he whispered.

Rose wrapped her arms tightly around Sherlock's neck again as he drew her closer. Twin heartbeats thudded swiftly in unison. Sherlock pressed his lips to the soft skin below her jawline, grazing it lightly and breathing her in.

Don't go yet, he thought.

They pulled apart slightly and Rose sniffed again, then ran her hands down Sherlock's shirt feeling the underlying strength of the man as he looked at her curiously. She felt his strong hands navigating the curve of her back as he leant in and whispered again, "Goodbye Rose."

"Goodbye Sherlock," she replied, finding an interest in his shirt buttons.

Yet they still did not part and neither of them wanted to be the first to instigate a separation.

Let me stay a bit longer, she thought looking up at him and willing him to read her mind.

What she saw were his silvery eyes darkened to an almost grey shade of brooding. He wanted her, even she could tell that, and she didn't need to feel his pulse to know that it now raced along inside him. Her lips parted slightly and apparently that was the green light he needed.

Sherlock dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. He felt the fullness of her mouth, soft and warm, and when Rose parted her lips, inviting. All sensuality and completely overwhelming. He was incapable of thinking now, only feeling, and his arousal spread somewhere from his midsection, radiating outwards until he was about to be consumed by it. By her.

This is why it's such a big deal, Sherlock thought. He needed to possess all of her now. This was the last barrier; this is what she was saving for someone special.

Rose was unbuttoning a couple of buttons on Sherlock's shirt as they kissed. He hadn't realised this until her hands were inside it and caressing his chest.

Rose stopped kissing Sherlock long enough to say, "Let's take this to the bedroom?"

"I can't pay," he said, pulling her back in, kissing her again. He didn't want to stop this. He would've paid two hundred pounds for her kiss, had he known.

Rose eased out of his kiss. "It's not an appointment," she said, "This is goodbye."

She picked up her bag and jacket and pulled Sherlock by the hand, leading him to his bedroom for the last time.

Sherlock shut his door, then drew Rose in again. He had a deep desire to have all of her, to assume control. His eyes were blazing and fully focussed on Rose. His mouth demanded hers again, his burned hot, and she felt the turbulence of his passion. They pulled and tugged at the barriers of their clothing until both naked they collapsed onto his bed.

There was no client-prostitute relationship now, just two people who wanted to consume each other.

They continued their kissing, but now able to tantalise and tease each other with their caresses. Sherlock was already hard, but didn't want to start anything until he had incited a complete surrender in Rose. He left off kissing her, and began his slow descent, his mouth following the trail of his hands.

Rose arched underneath him in pleasurable surprise of Sherlock's new-found knowledge of where to touch and to linger.

"Tell me when you're ready," he whispered. Talking. Talking was good. Did people do that? he thought.

Rose caressed Sherlock's hair. I'm going to miss you, she thought. Especially now that you're so...attentive. She let Sherlock do his thing, wondering where he had done his homework and feeling slightly jealous that he had found somebody else.

She was getting closer now. Just a bit longer. She moaned, and gently ran her fingers along the side of Sherlock's face. Those cheekbones, brushing against her inner thighs. Oh dear God!

"Sherlock!" she gasped.

"Now?" he murmured.

"Oh...yes...oh...no!"

"What?"

"Condom...wait!"

Sherlock moved aside as Rose leant over the bed able to reach her bag on the floor nearby. She rifled through it fervently as Sherlock moved up, and embraced her from behind, his body hard against hers. One hand stole down to continue what he'd started with his tongue, inciting a sharp arousal in Rose.

She'd retrieved a packet now, but lay back into Sherlock, enjoying his rhythm again.

She whispered to him that she was ready, so Sherlock moved aside allowing Rose to turn around and roll the condom onto him.

I have to get this right, he thought. Get the timing just perfect.

He entered her, emitting a deep sigh of satisfaction. Rose moved with him, murmuring his name.

How different this is, he thought, now that she's saying my name with some meaning behind it.

His mind was overwhelmed with sensations of her now: her scent, the texture of her skin, her sounds. He was drowning in her. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and he continued his rhythm. He looked into her eyes.

Pupils dilated.

"Kiss me," she whispered, looking at him with a new longing.

Sherlock smiled at her and bent his head. Rose embraced him tightly, encouraging Sherlock to move faster, twin hearts hammering now.

Because her own needs now grew inside her rather than the role of the sex worker that Rose had cast aside, she commanded Sherlock to roll over and they continued what Sherlock used to call "Phase Two". Rose tended to her own desires until he felt her stiffen and shudder as her pleasure peaked. She moved on top of him, against him, until he lost all control and had no choice but to surrender to it. As the waves battered his entire body then reduced to ripples, Sherlock pulled Rose down on top of him, holding her there as his mind slipped into a blank, quiet state.

They both stopped together, breathing deeply, Rose still locked in Sherlock's embrace, until his mind slowly kicked into gear. Rose blinked back tears as she listened to his heart beat.

"I'm not sure how many times I can say goodbye," Sherlock said breathlessly. "You just don't take the hint and leave."

Rose laughed, and raised her head. "I'm thinking two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Oh, my hourly rate is much higher than that."

Rose smiled back at him, then put her head back down on Sherlock's chest.

"Actually you do need to leave," Sherlock said softly. "John could be back at any moment, and please don't say you'll do him too."

Rose slowly sat up and moved off him. "I'm no longer a sex worker," she said, more to herself than to Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs off the bed. "Just going to clean up. You?"

"I'll use the bathroom after you."

Sherlock left Rose as he entered his bathroom. Rose rummaged in her bag for her phone, checking for messages. Oh good, she thought as she read the last couple. Everyone will be at the pub for lunch. Today is turning out to be a wonderful last day in London.

Sherlock re-emerged holding his dressing gown just as a male voice called from the landing.

"Sherlock! Sherlock? You up?"

"Lestrade," he muttered, recognising the D.I's voice. "Stay here," he instructed Rose. "It's a detective from the Yard. I'll chase him away. Mrs Hudson must have let him up."

Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around himself and padding through to his living room to unlock his living room door.

"Sorry to interrupt your sleep in," D.I. Lestrade said as he eyed Sherlock's attire. "Your downstairs door was wide open."

Behind him was Sherlock's favourite Sergeant, Sally Donovan.

"Mrs Hudson's getting work done downstairs again," Sherlock said to Lestrade. "Case?"

"We've got a fairly urgent one. Kidnapping."

"Not another banker, Detective Inspector? I received enough criticism rescuing the last one."

"No, and this one will make you even more popular. Two children. Kidnapped from a boarding school in Surrey."

"Come in," Sherlock said, sighing. "I'll just get dressed."

He left the detectives in his living room. Donovan looked at Lestrade and rolled her eyes.

Rose was almost dressed when Sherlock re-entered his room.

"It's a case. I have to go," he said in a low voice, looking around for his clothes.

"Oh, well, I have to be off anyway."

"Where's my...?" Sherlock muttered. He'd only found his boxers.

"You sort of flung everything that way," Rose said, indicating the far side of the room.

Sherlock stepped into his trousers as Rose twisted her hair up into a bun. Now she was fully dressed.

"Well," she began. "I guess this is the real goodbye."

"Oh, you can't go yet," Sherlock said in a hushed voice, as he shook out his shirt. "They're in the living room. You'll have to wait til we leave. That okay?"

"That's fine. Probably a bit late in the piece to let everyone know you've been fucking a prostitute?"

"Psychology graduate," Sherlock said, correcting her.

Rose exchanged a warm smile with Sherlock. He dropped his gaze and began buttoning up his shirt.

"Boarding school," he muttered to himself, his mind turning to the case. He walked around to Rose.

"Thank you," he said and bent down to kiss her on her cheek. "Just wait til we leave." Then he winked at her and was out the door.

As Sherlock entered the living room, Lestrade eyed him up and down and remarked, "Shoes may be necessary."

"Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said as he sat in his armchair, retrieving his shoes from where he had kicked them off the night before.

"Right, well I'll give you the details now before we head on over to St Aldate's. The Ambassador to the U.S. has asked if we can get you in. So here we are. His children, Max and Claudette Bruhl..."

Rose listened in as she held Sherlock's door slightly ajar. Oh, when are they leaving? she asked impatiently. She glanced at her watch. She was going to be late to meet her friends. Fucking hell, hurry up police people.

She heard Sherlock ask a few questions, mutter something about checking the school website and the detectives discussing some finer points with him. Pretty soon she heard another familiar voice—John Watson's.

Oh God, now I can't leave until John does. She sighed in exasperation. She could hear John was asking questions now. Perhaps she should emerge from Sherlock's bedroom. Hiya! Don't mind me. Just finished fucking Sherlock. Thought I'd weigh in. Missing children? Probably hiding in the dunnies smoking weed. No, no need to thank me. Can you all go now? Just want to tell Sherlock that I've fall—

No.

I have a crush, that's all.

Rose sank to the bed, and tapped her knee impatiently. A tiny idea formed in her mind. A moment of frivolity. Of course she was strapped for cash, but she'd do this anyway. Something else for him to remember her by, and a little recognition for his new found skill.

Rose grabbed her purse from her bag and retrieved a twenty pound note. She placed it onto Sherlock's bedside table and hoped that he'd see the gesture for what it was—a tip, for being more than just a sex partner.

Rose listened at the door again. A male voice, probably the police officer, said "Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity!" and then there was silence.

Have they left?

She listened some more, expecting to hear at least John moving about the flat.

Oh come on, Rose thought.

On hearing nothing at all, she opened the door a tad more. Seeing nobody, she quickly exited Sherlock's room, looked nervously around the corner of the kitchen into the living room. Breathing easy, Rose walked over to the living room window. She looked down onto the street and saw Sherlock and John climbing into the back of a silver unmarked police car.

With a heavy heart she thought, Goodbye Sherlock.

END OF SERIES 2

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