Chapter 14 - I Believe in Sherlock Holmes
Rose felt the bed spring up slightly and winced as the movement sent a jolt through her already throbbing head.
"Christ!" a male voice muttered.
Rose rolled onto her back, turning her head delicately. John glanced around.
"Sorry," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly, the remnants of an alcohol-infused evening. "Didn't mean to wake you. I'll be back in a sec."
Clad only in boxers, he shakily made his way to the door of his bedroom, grabbing his robe from the hook on the back of it. He opened the door, shutting it carefully behind him. Rose heard the quick thud of his footsteps as he hurried downstairs.
Bathroom, probably, she thought. She put her hands up to her head to massage her temples and closed her eyes.
Perhaps not the best decision in hindsight, but still - a comfort - that's what they needed each other for right now. Or perhaps just for last night. It was a bit of a blur really.
Hours ago saw her standing in the doorway of Sherlock's flat, a bottle of gin in one hand, tonic water in the other. John blinked up at her from his armchair. He was barefoot, and looked like he had been sitting there, staring vacantly into space for hours.
"S-sorry," Rose said. "Your landlady let me in."
John looked up at her blankly, before recognition flitted across his face. "Um...oh...yeah. Look," he began uneasily. "I...don't..." He sighed, then smiled weakly. "Not really good for company right now...ah..Shelley."
"I know," she said softly, walking into the living area.
She looked around briefly. Everything was almost exactly the same as it had been the last time she had visited a week ago. Except now the air was stale, there was no life in it, no Sherlock breezing through and taking up all the space and all of the air with just his presence.
"I brought this," she said half-heartedly holding out the gin. "I know you'd probably prefer a pint, but I really can't stomach beer. And wine feels too much like a celebration, so..." She trailed off, feeling stupid.
John huffed a breath which almost sounded like a laugh. "If you left me that, I'd probably drink the whole lot in one night. Probably not a good idea," he said morosely. "Depressed people drink gin, don't they?" he added.
"I won't let you drink alone, don't worry," Rose said, trying to control the tremour in her voice.
She made her way over to the kitchen and began the search for a couple of tumblers.
"Funeral's tomorrow," John said quietly.
"Oh," responded Rose, deep in thought. She found a couple of scotch glasses and poured in a shot of gin, then filled the rest with the tonic water. "I don't think I can go. I don't do funerals very well. I'd rather just ..." She paused, taking in a deep breath. "...remember him here. You know?"
John didn't say anything, so Rose brought the drinks back into the living area. She handed a glass to John, who took it automatically.
"To Sherlock," Rose said quietly, holding out her glass to John.
"Sherlock," John said, almost inaudibly. He gulped down the entire contents then held out the glass to Rose before noticing she was just standing there staring at Sherlock's empty chair.
"Um, I'll just sit over here," she said, turning from John and walking over to the couch.
John stood up and cleared his throat. "Thanks. That went down far too easily. I'll just have one more before retiring. You won't mind letting yourself out?" he called from the kitchen.
There was no response from Rose as John poured his second glass. He left it on the counter and re-entered the living area where he found Rose sobbing on the couch, holding her head in her hands.
Jesus, he thought walking slowly over to her. "Didn't think you knew him all that well," he said softly before catching himself. He stopped just in front of the coffee table. John felt slightly frustrated, an additional emotion to the pile of crap feelings he had already accumulated, consisting of hurt, confusion, disbelief, and growing anger. He just wasn't in the mood to offer comfort to an almost-stranger.
"I saw him a few times," she sniffed, then she picked up her glass and gulped down its contents. "I'm sorry," she said rising from the couch and smiling weakly at John. "I'm intruding. I should go now."
John allowed himself a tiny grin in amusement. "Did you ever write that paper about his cases?" he asked.
"Oh," Rose answered shyly. She adjusted her bag over her shoulder and replied, "I ended up writing a different one, more about his personality." She smiled. "That's why we ... met ... more often."
"Right," John said, shifting aside so Rose could get past. "So you psycho-analysed him."
"Something like that."
"Must have written something resembling a novel then."
Rose gazed up into John's face. His features seemed to mirror her own. "There was enough material there to..." Her face fell momentarily as she struggled with her next words. "He didn't seem the type to...he wouldn't have..."
John cleared his throat and stepped back a little. He dropped his head and shook it slightly. "There's no point," he said almost under his breath.
"I didn't see it," Rose whispered. "And I should've seen something."
"Nope," John said more forcibly, looking back up at her. "You couldn't have. I didn't see anything, and I'm his..." John struggled against his own tidal wave of emotions. He stiffened and set his jaw firmly. "None of us knew. There's no point in ... in... imagining what ifs..."
"Oh John," Rose exclaimed emotionally. She rushed at him and grabbed him in a hug, sobbing.
"Don't," John whispered hoarsely. "Just...don't. " His own voice faltered as enormous pitying waves of grief threatened to consume him also as he held Rose tightly, her body trembling against his.
He didn't want to see this amount of pain on someone else's face; see his own guilt reflected back at him.
"Shelley," he said comfortingly, "Just sit. Sit for a moment, okay?"
Rose felt weak as if her legs were going to betray her. This isn't what she wanted from John. She had wanted answers, an explanation, something to stop this feeling of helplessness. He had just confirmed everything she was already feeling guilty about.
She stepped back and sat down on the couch when John let her go.
"I'll get you another drink," he suggested, leaving her and walking back to the kitchen.
This time he returned with both the gin and the tonic water as well as his own glass and set them down onto the coffee table. He had already gulped down the contents of his glass while in the kitchen.
"He was a prick," John began, pouring out the drinks. "A fucking, arrogant, bastard of a man, and he probably thought he knew better." He chugged back his third drink as Rose sat next to him staring into hers. "And the best, cleverest wanker that ever walked the Earth."
Rose managed a small laugh, then downed her drink it one go. "More," she said. "Let's drown the bastard."
The alcohol began to spread throughout her body, leaving a false warm comfort in its wake.
John cleared his throat as he poured his fourth round, Rose's third. "I didn't believe him, you know."
"Believe him when?" Rose asked.
John breathed deeply. The gin was making him vocalise his deepest feelings; the thoughts that shouldn't be said out loud. John couldn't look at her as he replied. "When he said he was a fake, that what the newspapers had written about him was true. I don't believe it for a second."
"Why would he say it then?"
"To give him a reason."
"For what?"
John's voice was laced with bitterness as he answered, "For jumping off the fucking rooftop."
Rose was silent for a moment as she tried to imagine the scenario John had experienced. She'd read in the papers that John was a witness along with a group of other people who all declined to be interviewed.
"Why did he do that," Rose said, almost to herself, her mind beginning to drift on a sea of gin and tonic.
John snorted. "Sherlock would have a fucking theory. Probably ten possible theories. You know me, you know my methods," John mocked, Sherlock's voice in his head. "Tell me. Why would a bloody brilliant man, who would never be caught in a dead end his entire life, decide to end it all. Why would he think that was the only way out."
"Sometimes it's just..," Rose began, trying to remember her last few years of study. "...a feeling of hopelessness. Or a trigger, or an underlying feeling of rejection by society."
"Well, that's where your theory is wrong," John said accusingly, his speech starting to slur slightly as the alcohol began to take effect. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't have feelings."
They sat in silence together on the couch for several more minutes, with John raising his glass to his forehead and closing his eyes to stop the room from warping in his peripheral vision.
"He was nice," Rose volunteered, breaking the silence.
"Nice," snorted John, opening his eyes again. "Never heard that word associated with Sherlock before. But please tell the rest of the class what you're thinking," he said, turning his head slowly toward Rose.
She leant back onto the couch and smiled at John. "He was generous."
John concentrated on her smile for a moment. Her lips, specifically, and then her words finally filtered into his brain. "In what way?" he asked eventually.
"In his feedback."
Feedback. The word echoed through John's mind as he continued to direct his gaze alternately between Rose's eyes and her lips. "Feedback? Oh, you mean his opinion. Well, he gave that quite freely, yes."
Annoying dickhead.
"I actually found that refreshing."
She was smiling at him again. That knowing smile. Like she knew Sherlock somehow.
Wanker.
"Why?" John asked, narrowing his eyes at Rose. "Do you usually hang around with liars?"
"Yes, I guess I do," Rose mused, blinking slowly. "People who are lying to themselves I guess, as well as their loved ones." She thought for a moment and then qualified her statement with, "Supposed loved ones."
"Huh," John said in disgust. Liar, liar, pants on...
...something.
"Well, Sherlock was the best...my best...f-friend, and he lied to me," John announced, slurring quite a bit now. "He either lied to me from the rooftop, or that was his final truth after having lied to me the rest of the time," John said, gesturing widely. "Can't say that I was his loved one." And then John giggled. He couldn't stop giggling until Rose joined in with him, after which he leant in closely to her and said quite emphatically, "And I'm not gay."
Rose burst out laughing, which resulted in John continuing to chuckle. When they finally stopped, John smiled broadly at Rose, through the slitted eyes of a fellow inebriated soul.
She held out her glass to him in a toast. "To not being gay," she said.
"Not gay," he repeated, and threw back the rest of his drink. "I'm not staying here," he said in all seriousness.
"Why?"
John slowly shook his head. "Can't. After the funeral I'll just pack up...stay with my sister or somewhere. Then get a place...small place. Quiet."
Rose thought about John's words for a moment. Another person packing up and shifting direction. That's what people who commit suicide don't think about do they? The people they leave behind. The big gaping hole they leave behind. If they only knew, if they could see what effect their last drastic and final act would make...would they still go ahead with it?
"I quit my job. I don't know why," Rose stated philosophically.
"Why?"
"I said I don't know why!" Rose laughed, and John giggled again. Rose's face grew serious as she added, "I wanted to find out what happened to Sherlock."
"He's dead. He jumped from the top of a building," John said simply. "There's nothing more to tell."
Both were silent for a few more minutes, then Rose turned to John. He returned her gaze and tried to smile, but thought the better of it.
"Would you like to kiss me?" Rose asked forlornly, as if she had nothing else to offer by way of comfort.
"God, yes," John murmured.
John wasted no time in giving in to his drunken desires. Rose felt giddy as John's lips pressed hard and hot against hers. She knew it wasn't attraction nor lust that coursed through her veins at that moment - there was alcohol, obviously, with just the right mix of loneliness, emptiness and the need to feel wanted.
There was no hesitation in John's actions. He felt it too. He needed to make a connection with another human being, unapologetically. He demanded and she gave. There was no betrayal, no lies, no mystery, just give and take.
Rose felt the steady, rapid thumping of John's pulse in his neck as she ravished it. It matched hers in tempo - not arousal, simply inebriation.
But suddenly John was saying, "No, no, no," over and over, like he was chastising himself. She knew it. Bad idea. But instead he was shaking his head and saying, "Not here. Shhh!" he added, drunkenly pressing his index finger to Rose's lips. The gesture made her laugh, which she attempted to stifle once she noted John's look of alarm.
"Shh!" he said again. "Not here," he whispered and pointed to the ceiling.
Oh, she thought. He's scared of getting sprung snogging with a woman.
He grabbed her hand and they both rose from the couch. John led her out of the living room door, across the landing and up another flight of stairs.
His bedroom, presumably, she thought. Or an attic, she mused, stifling a giggle again as she thought of cobwebs and suits of armour.
"Shhh!' he kept saying, even though his own heavy tread was like a herd of elephants.
She had wondered where John slept if it wasn't with Sherlock.
Does he bring girlfriends home? Do you hear them sometimes? she had asked Sherlock during one of their tea breaks.
Not answering, Sherlock replied. On the grounds that this conversation is boring me.
Rose giggled again, and was met by a stern shush from John.
They entered the room and before Rose could comment on its sparseness John had embraced her again, pulling her toward the bed. She noted his eyes - unfocussed and distant. He was going through the motions, she thought. His body demanded, but his emotions were on vacation.
They broke apart as Rose slipped her top over her head, then proceeded to unbutton John's shirt.
"You're getting a freebie," she murmured in his ear as his mouth attacked her neck.
"What?" he gasped as she pushed him onto the bed.
Rose unbuckled John's belt and as he lay on his back across the mattress.
"Free...bie," she breathed into his ear.
"Bee," John repeated, as Rose unzipped him. "Bees...Sherlock likes bees," he giggled. "Stupid git."
He attempted to sit up and push Rose back down onto the bed. She lay down to accommodate him.
"I like women," he gushed. "Women, not bees," and he giggled again.
"Jeans," she gasped, her hands on his waistband.
He had made the whole process difficult by lying on top of her. She couldn't help him in any way in this position.
John's mind was trying to process the onslaught of information. Soft, good, yes, hair, soft, good, yes, lips, soft, good, yes. Curves, bumps, cushiony, soft. Woman. Oh God, yes.
"Wait," she gasped, as John's hands raked along her body, while his mouth sucked and nibbled at her neck. "Finish getting undressed."
John tutted and rolled off her. Rose sat up and looked around the room. Dresser, wardrobe, desk, chair, small bookshelf. Nothing much. Simple, neat. The room of a man who barely spent any time in it except for sleeping and dressing.
And fucking.
"John," she said, turning to him as his fingers fumbled on his shirt buttons. "Do you have any...protection?"
"Oh," he snorted. "Um..." His fingers stopped in their task as the brain fought to come up with an answer.
A location at least.
Any time now, his language centre urged.
Rough location then.
Memory?
Last sexual encounter would help.
Come on, John! Think!
"Er...wallet?"
Rose stood up and walked over to the dresser. His wallet lay there, thank goodness. She handed it to him as he sat up. John blinked slowly twice, and tried to focus on the object in his hands.
Wallet.
Cash.
"Ah, nope," he said eventually. "Got a fiver. Will that do?"
"Condom!" Rose said exasperatedly.
"Oh..." Connection made. "Nope," he answered eventually, tossing the wallet onto the floor.
"Don't worry. I think I have in my bag downstairs. Back in a sec."
Rose left the room as John muttered, "Good." He had shakily stood up to drag his jeans down.
Rose made it halfway down the stairs before realising she was clad in her bra and skirt. Oh damn! Well, it's not like he has a flatmate I have to worry about bumping into.
Then it hit her.
Hard.
Oh God!
She stopped suddenly on the part where the staircase curved around halfway down.
Oh God.
Sherlock.
She was lost. Her senses struggled through the onslaught of alcohol. Sherlock, my God. Confused, she sat down on the bottom step and quietly wept.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please no. What am I doing?
This was the one thing Sherlock had forbidden her to do. Stop flirting with John, he had said. If there was one request he had of her, just the one, it would be this. Don't do it, Rose.
"I'm sorry about John," Rose whispered, echoing her words to Sherlock the last time they spoke. "That was bad form."
Yes, well he got over it fairly quickly, Sherlock's voice echoed in her head.
"I was talking about you," she whispered back.
I know you were desperate, Sherlock had said.
Rose smiled to herself as she whispered, "We all do stupid things when we're desperate."
Yes you do, don't you? Sherlock had replied, smiling at her in her imagination.
"I love you, Sherlock," she responded with words she had never spoken to him. "And I didn't tell you because I thought you would never love me back. But maybe you just needed to hear it from somebody."
Rose choked back her tears and composed herself. She remained sitting on the step for a few more minutes, feeling her heart thundering as it continued to pump the alcohol throughout her body.
I'll just tell John I didn't have any. That will do. He'll be fine with that, surely.
When she made it back up to John's room she was relieved to find him passed out on his bed, one arm and one leg dangling drunkenly over the edge. She sighed and positioned John's limbs more comfortably onto the mattress, then she lay down next to him and contemplated her next move.
I'm far too tired and drunk to wait out on the pavement for a cab now, she concluded. I'll just sleep for a bit then grab a taxi in the morning. She yawned and was swiftly engulfed in sleep herself.
As she lay waiting for John to return from the bathroom the next morning, Rose quickly realised she had slept in her bra and skirt. Scanning the room she found her top, and hastily threw it on just as John returned.
"Oh. Um, sorry," he said, quickly averting his eyes.
"It's all right," Rose replied reassuringly.
"Er...did we...we didn't..." John began, looking completely awkward as his eyes flicked toward his bed.
"No," Rose answered. "No, we didn't. I slept in your bed, sorry. It was too late for me to catch a cab and I...um...didn't want to sleep on the couch. It was too cold."
"Oh, okay. Good," he responded, smiling a little. "Sorry...um..I have to get ready now. I'll be late for the ..." He cleared his throat. "...service."
"Yeah. Okay. I won't keep you. I'm sorry I won't be there."
John smiled and then turned away.
"John...can I...?" Rose trailed off, not really sure what she wanted to ask. See you again? Get drunk and talk about Sherlock again? Form a Sherlock fan club?
"Look, Shelley," John began, not knowing where to start, but wanting to head her off at the pass in case she asked something awkward. He would go away after the funeral. He needed to have a clean break from... from all of this. Anything to do with Sherlock Holmes.
"Rose."
"Sorry?"
Rose breathed in deeply. What did she have to lose?
"My name is Rose."
John gave Rose a quizzical look, so she decided to continue.
"I'm a prostitute."
John gave her a blank stare which was then followed by a slight narrowing of the eyes and furrowing of his brow.
Continue Rose, continue. Let's see where this gets you.
"Sherlock was paying me to have sex with him."
John momentarily closed his eyes and tilted his head, frowning, as if the words physically hurt. He opened his eyes and looked slightly peeved. "Sorry, what?" he asked slowly, as if daring Rose to repeat herself.
"My name is Rose."
"Got that," he responded, seething slightly.
"I'm a prostitute."
"And that," through gritted teeth.
Rose sighed. "Sherlock...
"Nope," he said emphatically, cutting her off with a slight shake of his head. "You know what I'm doing now?" he asked, his eyes blazing. "I'm getting ready to go pay my respects..." He choked off the last word and looked down, sighing deeply. "...to my best friend," he finished in a hoarse whisper. He looked up, meeting Rose's gaze. His face hardening he added, "I don't know what you're doing."
Rose blinked back tears as John turned back toward his dresser. "John, I just wanted you to know that perhaps you didn't know him a well as..."
"You should leave," he said quietly, without turning around.
"I did love..."
John turned back in fury. "YOU HAVE NO IDEA!" he yelled. "NO BLOODY IDEA!"
Rose took a step back, startled.
"I'm burying my best friend today. You have no idea what that's like. And if you are what you say you are..." he added in a condescending tone. "If Sherlock...paid you to be around him, then you mean nothing to us. Okay? Nothing. So just ... leave."
He turned his back on her once more. Rose regarded him for a moment before composing herself. "I'm sorry," she said in a half-whisper, and she was out of the door and down the stairs before the heavy burden of despair enveloped her.
She strode into Sherlock's living room, breathing heavily, her eyes stinging.
Nothing.
Rose picked up her bag from the floor area between the couch and the coffee table, where it had fallen the night before and slung it over her shoulder.
Nothing.
She looked around the room, hoping for some sign of Sherlock. How could he not be alive, when he was so alive in her heart?
Nothing.
She wanted to take something, some part of him, some physical evidence of his existence so she could cherish him forever. If anything, he wasn't nothing to her. He wasn't just a client. He wasn't just income.
But you're nothing, Rose.
Perhaps a photo? But there weren't any of those around. Besides, the newspapers and internet were full of those, and they were also filled with such sad, bad words. Rose wondered where his hat was. But, she couldn't take that because he hated it. She didn't want a memento of him that he despised. There wasn't really anything, she concluded on walking through the room.
She sat down in John's chair and stared at the vacant chair opposite.
He'd offered her tea and biscuits.
Surely that wasn't nothing.
He'd offered her his shirt when she was too cold to be naked.
Not nothing, Rose.
He'd offered her one hundred and eighty pounds to have sex with him when she cried on his doorstep.
Okay, that's probably not a good example of his philanthropy.
Rose reached behind her and grabbed at the cushion she was leaning on. Cuddling into the Union Jack she fought back tears.
Why do I care about him so much? Why do I even entertain the possibility that I could have loved him? He was just a man after all. Just another man paying her for sex. Nothing special.
But...he...
Nothing, Rose.
Rose stood up still holding onto the cushion and she wiped away one final tear.
I'm taking the cushion, she thought. Something to hold at night, and besides, it's a nice cushion.
A few days later Rose fastened a corset, then donned her parlour maid outfit, frowning at the plunging neckline.
Exactly in what century did anyone decide that cleaning a parlour was going to be comfortable and efficient in this garment, she thought. Oh well, eighty pounds is eighty pounds. And if I fuck the birthday boy, that's another hundred on top of that.
Rose wondered how she let Hallie at the strip club talk her into this supposedly one-off job. Hallie was the stripper, Rose was the coat-check girl. But they got to talking one night and Rose confessed she was a common garden variety whore. Hallie seized on this information and begged Rose to take a job she had been booked for.
"I don't mind stripping, but I'm not fucking a twenty-one year old, especially a drunk one!"
Rose thought long and hard about it...for half an hour anyway, and concluded that she could definitely do with the money, at least until she decided what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
Hallie and her cousin were going to accompany her to the 21st, as a kind of assistant (Hallie, who would press play on the iPod) and security guard (Yianni, who would make sure she wasn't gang-raped).
When there was a rapping on her door, Rose tutted and looked at her wall clock. Ten forty-five. An hour early. Fuckers. They'll have to wait then. I still need to put this blonde wig on. She fastened the last button over her cleavage and yelled out, "Wait!" when her door was pounded on rather impatiently.
"I said, 'Wai...'" she managed to yelled as she opened the door.
A figure pushed the door open wider, barged in and said, in a familiar baritone, "Cold out there. What took you so long?"
The 'tramp' pushed the hood from his head, narrowed his steel blue eyes at her and remarked, "What the hell are you dressed like that for?"
.
