Chapter 15 - #SherlockLives

Rose stood by her door, too stunned to move, speak or breathe.

"Sorry, it's really cold. Would you mind closing that door?" Sherlock asked, unzipping his hoodie. Christ! I need to get out of this filth as soon as possible, he thought.

Rose closed the door, but not her mouth, which had remained agape as soon as Sherlock had revealed himself to her.

"Do you think I could use your bathroom? Back this way is it?" he asked, indicating the doorway behind him.

Sherlock stepped into the bathroom, shrugged off his hoodie, then pulled off the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. He tossed both items of clothing through the open bathroom door and said, "Was that a washer/dryer thingie I saw in your kitchen?"

He glanced briefly up at Rose, who had only moved slightly toward him from the front door but was still unable to speak.

"Could you wash them...please?" he asked, pulling down the grey tracksuit pants and boxers in one swift movement. He stepped out of the pants and tossed them onto the previous articles of clothing. "And dry them too. Bit smelly, you don't mind do you?" He smiled sheepishly at her, then closing the door he remarked, "Just need some privacy, sorry."

The bathroom door clicked shut, snapping Rose out of her trance. She looked back toward her entrance door and then again at the bathroom door. She could hear the sound of the shower running and a...

...Is he whistling a happy tune?

Rose breathed out and looked down at the pile of dirty laundry.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes, naked.

Sherlock Holmes is having a shower in my bathroom and has just tossed his laundry out to me and asked that I wash it for him.

And dry it.

An alive Sherlock Holmes just stripped naked in front of me and is taking a shower in my bathroom.

While Rose's brain was pondering this mystery, her body decided it had a chore to do, and she found herself gathering up the laundry, walking into the kitchen and putting it all into the washer/dryer. She tutted to herself as she pressed the buttons for a full cycle. She never pressed the drying option for herself. It wasted too much electricity, and she was going to struggle to pay utilities bills as it was.

She walked back out of the kitchen area and stood outside the bathroom door listening to the whistling. Eventually it stopped and a hummed tune took its place. Starting to come out of her stunned state, Rose put her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.

Steam billowed out at her and as the cold draught subsequently rushed inwards, Sherlock looked up to see what had caused the change in temperature. "Oh," he remarked, wiping the steam from the glass and looking through the shower pane at Rose. "I think I've used up the rest of your shampoo."

She stood just in the doorway and glared at him. Sherlock either did not notice or care. He finished rinsing out his hair, then turned the taps off. Fuck, that feels good, he thought. Opening the door slightly, he beamed at her and asked, "Could I trouble you for a towel?"

Rose moved inside the bathroom fully, and shut the door so she could retrieve the towel from the hook on the back of it. She handed it to Sherlock who proceeded to vigorously dry his hair while stepping out of the stall.

He glanced at her again. Oh, stunned mullet, as the saying goes. Obvious. I'm meant to be dead. It was announced to the world after all. Why isn't she saying anything then? "Why do I have a feeling you've been reading newspapers?" he said, toweling the rest of his body while Rose continued to glare at him. "I guess I should say...'not dead'?"

So I'm not going mad, Rose reasoned. He does realise he's not still meant to be walking this earth. She found her voice at last and posed the million dollar question, "Why are you 'not dead'?"

"Long story," he answered, and wound the towel around his hips. And one which, for some reason, causes my heartrate to increase annoyingly so; want to avoid that topic of conversation at the moment. Still feels like Iceland in here though. Not the safe, comfortable haven I thought I'd be getting.

"Now," he said, brushing past her. "Why is it so cold in here? Do you not have heating? Could I borrow a robe or a blanket at least?"

"Sherlock," Rose said incredulously, following him out of the bathroom.

He turned to face her and crossed his arms over his chest. "Cold!"

Rose tutted and stalked into her bedroom to retrieve her dressing gown. It was a plain, black, silky thing and thankfully not too short. She couldn't imagine Sherlock walking around in her frilly, red, shorter gown.

She couldn't imagine an alive Sherlock walking around in her frilly, red, shorter gown.

"Thanks," he remarked, shedding the towel.

"I can't afford heating," Rose explained to the dead man, but not really sure why she was.

"Bit of a fancy area," Sherlock commented, strutting about the small living room as he fastened the robe and peered out of the curtains. "At least the other side of the street is. You've got the slum side."

"I can't afford the other side of the street. I can barely afford the 'slum' side," Rose responded defensively.

"What are you doing back in London, anyway? I followed you all the way to Cardiff. Thought I could do with a week's holiday in Wales, but you'd left."

"Why were you following me to Wales? And why are you here in the first place?" And then she asked the most obvious question of all, which he still hadn't answered. "Why aren't you dead?"

"Got anything to eat?" Sherlock asked, strolling into the kitchen.

"Sherlock!"

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked, waving his hand back at her, not even looking at Rose as he surveyed the fridge. "No food, no heating, not really much of a bolt hole."

"Excuse me?" Rose was bewildered. Surely she was living in the twilight zone. "Not really what?"

Sherlock sighed and looked bored as he explained. "Bolt hole. A place where I can hide or rest while I'm on a case, or in this case... dead. I have them all over the city. I was going to make this my number one bolt hole for the week, but it's not well stocked."

"But..I live here."

"I know," he replied, grinning broadly again. "And nobody knows about you, which makes your place of residence in Leinster Gardens perfect for me. Now," he said, sitting down in an armchair and steepling his hands to his chin. He muttered almost to himself, "I need to rest. I'm going away for a while and until my documents are all in order I need somewhere to sleep without having to worry about anyone stealing my shoes or slitting my throat."

What is going on here? Rose wondered in exasperation. He wasn't explaining anything; he was avoiding her questions and he was supposed to be dead. This had mental health issues written all over it. But Rose didn't have time to "create the space" as they called it in her Psychology workshops. She wanted answers, and to hell with Sherlock's delicate sensibility. She was the one who had to deal with the shock of his sudden reappearance.

"Start talking," Rose demanded, crossing her arms and giving Sherlock a steely gaze.

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked, looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

Avoidance.

"I'm working."

"Cleaning?"

"Fuck-ing," she answered angrily.

"Oh," Sherlock commented disinterestedly. "Can I sleep in your bed?" he asked, rising from the armchair. "Unless of course you've got your client coming here, which I doubt because the place is freezing. Doesn't really lend itself for running around naked," he shot back.

Rose was stunned at the gall of the man. Firstly, he didn't have the decency to stay dead like a good object of unrequited love should, but now he's dismissing her as not worthy of his interest. Furiously she followed him into her bedroom. He'd shrugged off the robe and was already making his way under the covers.

"Could you perhaps bring some food back on your way home from your cleaning-fucking job?"

Rose's anger bubbled to the surface and she grabbed at the blankets and pulled them off Sherlock.

"Hey! Naked here!"

"Get out!" she ordered.

"Rose!" Sherlock barked back, and reached down for the blankets.

"You can't just come in here and pretend everything's fine! You fucking killed yourself! You died! I cried for you! I lost my fuckin' job because of you!"

Sherlock just stared at what he regarded as a woman over-reacting just a tad. "You lost your job because of me?" Sherlock repeated incredulously, gently pulling back at the blankets.

Rose closed her eyes and breathed out.

"How did that happen?" Sherlock asked, his voice softening. Why did it happen? What does your career have to do with me?

Rose sat down on the end of the bed and looked back at Sherlock. She tried to smile at him but it all seemed too hard so she turned away. He was here. He wasn't dead. He was here in her bed and she had told his ghost that she loved him. Where to go from here?

Rose looked up at Sherlock. He was studying her. But John was right. She meant nothing to Sherlock. Nobody knew about her because she wasn't worth mentioning. He didn't even think that she would've heard or cared about his supposed death. Nothing, Rose. And she had a life to live, and a living to earn. She could cry; she could fling herself at him, though she'd looking something like an idiot in his eyes. He didn't even think for one moment his return would have any effect on her.

She smiled wanly at him. "Doesn't matter," she said, rising. "You get some sleep. I have to finish getting ready for work. We can talk later."

She made to leave the room, grabbing the door handle when Sherlock said, "I hope he treats you kindly."

"Who?"

"The guy you're fucking tonight. I hope he treats you kindly," he repeated, rearranging the covers on the bed.

"I'm...I'm not fucking anybody really," Rose replied. "It's just a 21st. I'm jumping out of a cake. Sex is optional," she added blandly.

"You're what?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"Jumping out of a cake."

A number of scenarios were swiftly outlined in Sherlock's Mind Palace, all of them resulting in either the death of Rose, or the production of a poor excuse for a cake.

"H-how is that possible?" Sherlock asked slowly. "Do they bake you in it first?"

"What?" Rose asked, not quite sure if Sherlock was joking or not. "It's...not a real cake."

"Not a real cake?"

"It's a fake cake."

"A fake cake."

"Made of plywood, and painted to look like a giant cake."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if trying to imagine a world where this happened. "Why?"

"Why what?" Rose asked, faintly amused at Sherlock's ignorance. How does a guy get to be his age and not have heard of strippers and God knows who else popping out of cakes as a party amusement?

"Why are you jumping out of a fake cake made of plywood?" he asked, genuinely curious. This was one to store in the Silly Social Customs folder of the What Ordinary People Do filing cabinet.

"It's a surprise for the birthday boy. Or I should say man, but that sounds silly."

"That sounds silly?"

In spite of herself, Rose huffed a small laugh then said, "I have to finish getting ready. I'll talk to you later. I'll bring you something to eat."

Sherlock pulled the blankets up higher and slid down under the covers further. "Not fake cake, I hope," he muttered.

"No," Rose replied, silently laughing to herself. She turned out the bedroom light and went to shut the door. Holding it slightly ajar, she added, "I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock."

"Me too," he declared, somewhat sleepily.

Rose shut the door on him, but still felt confused. She was waiting for that wave of sadness to engulf her as it usually did whenever she thought about Sherlock this past week. Sometimes it would debilitate her, other times she'd try to shrug it off and get on with her work checking in coats or filling in invoices for new tyres. But now...she could feel a sense of excitement.

He was alive!

And now there was that possibility...

No. There wasn't. Stop it, Rose.

"Rose," he was calling her from the bedroom.

"Yes?" she asked, opening the door again.

His voice floated through the semi darkened room. "I should mention that I don't want anyone to know I'm alive just yet. I have some clean up work to do first."

"Um...okay. Sure."

"It's important."

Rose's heart quickened at the thought of Sherlock spending night after night in her bed. Just how long would he stay while he was undertaking his 'clean up work'? "I'll be good," she said softly.

There was a pause before Sherlock responded. Rose wondered if he was analysing the truth of words. "Good. Thank you."

"I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Okay, good," Sherlock replied with a yawn. "I'll be asleep."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Rose closed the door quietly, her head still buzzing. Now she was feeling apprehensive for the evening's activities. She wanted it to be over as soon as possible so she could return to Sherlock. She wouldn't have sex with the birthday boy. The option was hers too, naturally.

Jump out of the cake, perform a lap dance, or whatever, then get the fuck out of there.

Home via a Tesco Express of course, to pick up something for Sherlock to eat.

It all worked perfectly. She was home by two forty. She dumped the plastic bag of convenience store food down on the table and hastened to her bedroom, her heart beating furiously and hoping to God Sherlock would still be there.

He was.

Lying on his side facing away from the door he was fast asleep. Rose shut the door softly, but then he called her. When she opened it again, he had rolled onto his back.

"How was the cake?" he asked sleepily.

"Good. It went ... as well as expected."

"The birthday -man- was suitably surprised then?"

"I expect so."

"You expect so? I thought that was the whole point of the girl in a cake thing. The element of surprise?"

"Well...sort of. Everyone has an expectation that someone is going to jump out of the cake. I mean, yes it's a surprise because they don't know who is going to jump out of... the cake." Rose trailed off when she thought how ridiculous the conversation was sounding.

Sherlock, however, was still fascinated by the whole idea of surprising people with fake cake jumping that he sat up and continued to probe her about it. Finally Rose had had enough. "Look, I've bought food, but you can eat it in the morning if you like."

"Nope, I'll get up now," Sherlock said, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his hair.

"Help yourself. I'm just going to have a shower," Rose said, leaving the door ajar.

She was desperate to get out of that ridiculous outfit. And...they had -touched- her.

Once she'd emerged from the shower and donned her spare dressing gown over pyjamas, she found Sherlock in the kitchen licking relish from his fingers.

"Disgusting," he remarked of the convenience store bought hot dog. "But that hit the spot. Now," he said, moving over to the living room. "You've got some explaining to do." And he leant over the back of an armchair and lifted up the Union Jack cushion.

"Souvenir."

"It looks and smells like the one from my flat," he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

"It is. I stole it."

"Clearly," he stated. "And when did you have the opportunity to do that?"

"The other day. I went round to pay my respects to John."

Rose's heart paused for one moment as she thought about the conversation and the almost sex she'd had with John. She hoped Sherlock didn't read that on her face, but he was too busy pensively turning the cushion over.

"And that's how you pay your respects is it?" he asked in mild amusement, dropping the cushion back onto the chair. "By stealing things?"

"Well...I didn't think anyone'd miss it."

"True," he replied, shrugging. "Can I borrow your toothbrush?"

"Um..."

"Thanks," he said without waiting for an answer.

Rose watched him brush his teeth for a minute before turning off all of the lights in the kitchen and living area and retiring to her bedroom. She felt sorry for the man. He had to be dead, which meant he had nothing in the world, not even a toothbrush. Well, he had her: a tom in a bolt hole and all she herself possessed, which wasn't much.

She climbed into bed and waited for Sherlock. She heard him moving about the flat and had a slight moment of panic when she thought he might be leaving. But instead he entered the bedroom dressed in his t-shirt and trackpants. Obviously the wash/dry cycle had finished.

"So why did you quit your job?" he asked casually, climbing into the bed next to her.

Rose paused before answering. Should I tell him? Should I make him feel guilty? Of course I should. He can't just think there are no consequences to his actions. She swallowed and replied, "Because I didn't think I'd make a good therapist."

Sherlock gave her a quizzical look. "But you studied for years. You went all the way to Cardiff. They gave you an internship. You even made plans to get to work that first day."

"How do you know all that?" Rose asked in surprise.

"I have my methods," he replied, smiling smugly at her.

"Then it can't be all that hard for you to work out why I didn't show up," she challenged.

They were silent for a while until Sherlock remarked, "But you had an internship."

"Oh God, Sherlock," Rose said in frustration. "I thought I'd make a lousy therapist because someone I knew killed themself, okay? I didn't see the signs, I didn't try too hard to offer comfort or sympathy when he needed help the most, and he committed suicide. I class that as the ultimate failure in psychological therapy, don't you?"

They were silent again, with Rose thinking that now Sherlock was feeling the first pangs of guilt. Instead, he asked, "Who committed suicide?"

Rose sat up and glared at him in disbelief.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, when realisation hit. "Bet you feel a tiny bit stupid now," he commented facetiously.

Anger again manifested itself in Rose's tone as she said, threateningly, "I'm going to throw you out onto the street in five seconds unless you apologise."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, innocently shrugging.

"For everything! Faking your own death, and coming here and being so insensitive about what I went through and demanding stuff from me. A sorry and a thank you would be good."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the outburst. He looked down at the blankets and then back at Rose, rearranging his features into a look of contrition. "Sorry, Rose."

Rose almost melted under his misty blue-eyed gaze.

"And thank you for letting me stay," he added in a small voice.

Dear God, Rose thought, observing Sherlock's expression which was dripping in sincerity. Please stay forever.

"Why did you do it?" she asked eventually.

She lay back down on her side facing him as Sherlock stared at the ceiling. He then turned to her and sighed. "I did it to save my ...friends... from being assassinated by the henchmen of a master criminal. I had to exchange my life for theirs."

"What? Really? What master criminal?"

"James Moriarty," he said simply.

Rose thought for a moment. She knew that name; read it somewhere. "The actor guy they said you hired to be a criminal."

"Yes," sighed Sherlock. "That was all a part of his plan. Discrediting me and forcing me to take a dramatic exit: a shameful suicide."

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Sherlock studied Rose's face. She was looking at him in disbelief, he could see that. But her silence in these early days was crucial, whether she accepted his story or not. "It's not over yet Rose. If anyone thinks for one second that I'm alive then Moriarty's orders will still be carried out. These people have their own professional code of conduct to adhere to."

Rose wanted to trust him - believe him whole-heartedly. And she definitely didn't want to blindly embrace the media's claim that he was a fraud. In her heart she had never been convinced of that assertion. So why did this sound completely far-fetched? Who would go to such lengths? But then again, if Sherlock were the fraud then it was he who had woven an elaborate plot. Both truths sounded as ludicrous as each other.

But she would rather have faith in Sherlock. It seemed the right thing to do. She couldn't imagine how he could get himself out of this. "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock contemplated his immediate future. Plans were already being set in motion and he had to take the first step - his first step to a different life, away from the people he ... knew. "I have to round up his criminal gang here, and break up his networks abroad. I won't stop until that happens, and I won't come back from the dead until then."

Rose's heart fell at these words. "So you're going away?" she asked, almost choking.

"Yes."

"For how long?" she dared ask.

Sherlock was pensive for a moment. When he replied, his voice was barely audible. "Until it's done."

Rose just wanted the whole idea to go away. There must be other people who could do this - why Sherlock? It seemed as if he was the victim here. Why should he be a one-man crime fighter? "That sounds dangerous," she remarked, trying to make light of it. "...and impossible. Why can't you just go to the police, and tell them the truth?"

Sherlock tutted. "Infiltrating organised crime syndicates and terrorist organisations here and abroad is actually an easier task than waiting for the idiots at Scotland Yard to understand anything more complex than a hit and run." He smiled and then added, "And it's not impossible."

Rose's heart lifted in response to that smile: that warm smile with just of hint of a sparkle in his eyes. He was going to be all right; he could look after himself, the smile assured her. In spite of herself, she leant in toward Sherlock and pressed her lips against his.

He didn't return her kiss. His lips met hers, perhaps out of politeness, but he didn't invite her in, didn't lift his hands to her face, or even close his eyes. As Rose pulled away she saw a mixture of amusement and curiosity reflected in his eyes.

Sherlock had deliberately kept the kiss neutral. He knew what she wanted and he couldn't let it happen, not now. It wasn't as if he had forgotten that first kiss a little under two weeks ago - how she had tasted, how she had felt, soft and pliant in his arms. She wanted more than he could give. He had to keep his distance emotionally and he convinced himself that it was for her own good. She had to forget about him. He was dead.

"Not now, Rose," he said gently. "I need a couple more hours sleep."

"I'll help you get to sleep," she whispered softly.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Good night, Rose."

Rose's heart now sank into the pit of her stomach. "Good night, Sherlock," she responded, but at the same time she thought desperately, Don't push me away, Sherlock.

He turned away from her, and lay on his side. Rose switched off the bedside lamp and lay on her side as well, facing away from him. She wanted to cry, but really, she had spilled enough tears over this man at the thought of him dead. Why cry when he was alive? She would see what the morning would bring.

Perhaps she'd try to convince Sherlock to let John in on the secret. Yes, that's what she'd do. Poor John.

But when Rose woke the next morning Sherlock's side of the bed was empty.
And cold.

He was gone.

.


A/N: Thank you sevenpercent for Britpicking and pointing out that there are no 7-11s in London. On her advice, I changed it to Tesco Express.