Author's note:
Thanks for your kind and enthusiastic reviews!

I'm assuming you know the first part of S3E1 intimately enough to recognise what's happening in the gaps I don't write about. When my scenes overlap with one from the show I may write the leading or exiting dialogue or a narrative covering it as I don't like rewriting huge slabs of dialogue lifted directly from the show.


SERIES 3

Chapter 16: The Empty Heart

From his rooftop perch, Sherlock surveyed all that was his - the city, his city, the city of London - where the rolling, brooding clouds caressed the cold, cemented heart of the vibrant population. The frigid wind whipped around him and his blue-grey gaze matched London's outlook: alert, waiting, welcoming.

John, he thought, with a sigh. Too early for dinner, but I do have something to attend to first.

In the fading light he found himself strolling along a terrace in Bayswater. A couple were walking just ahead of him and he kept to the shadows as their conversation reached him in snatches and small sound bytes.

"I have an early start," the woman was saying. "But this was lovely."

Sherlock grinned to himself. The young woman veered to the left slightly, in an effort to put a gap between herself and her companion. She's not interested, mate, he mused. Best retreat now, before you make more of an idiot of yourself.

"Just a quick...ah...bite to eat," he was saying, not trying too hard to hide the desperation in his voice.

"I rarely eat dinner and I have some studying to do," she added, politely ignoring his request.

"I'll just see you to your door," he said, as they were swallowed by the shadows of the enormous red brick apartment building.

Sherlock casually mounted the steps to the first floor, listening to their voices echoing throughout the stairwell.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow," she was saying, her voice pleasant on the surface, but Sherlock could detect an underlying level of frustration.

"Uh, yeah, then maybe the pub again after?" The man's voice rose at the end of his question, a plea sounding in the elevation.

There was silence as Sherlock assumed she was unlocking her door and/or giving him her final excuses in a low voice.

Sure enough a dejected-looking male rounded the staircase brushing past Sherlock in his descent.

"Evening," Sherlock managed to say, with a fake smile. The man ignored him.

Rounding the corner, Sherlock caught sight of the first floor door swinging itself shut. He lunged forward, preventing it from latching. She turned in surprise at the intrusion.

"Good call. He watches gay porn anyway. Although, had he handed you fifty quid, he may have been in with a cha-"

He didn't finish his insult as Rose strode forward and soundly slapped him across the face.

"That's for the comment," she said, her eyes flashing menacingly. "And this..." She slapped him once more before Sherlock had time to recover. "...is for the last two years."

While Sherlock was still reeling, Rose stepped closer, grabbed the lapels of his coat and roughly pulled him in for a kiss.

Sherlock was momentarily stunned, and then the familiarity of all that was Rose slowly wound itself around him, until his senses were overloaded with everything from her scent, the taste of her and the softness of her body as she pressed against him. He banded his arms around her as she melted into the kiss he passionately returned.

Sherlock was transported back to his life two years ago, a life that had dramatically veered off course from the direction he thought he was heading. His life had been reduced to the basic instinct of survival interwoven with episodes of living a multitude of false lives under false identities, never stopping once to let himself feel, as he was definitely doing now.

Heat, lust, greed and longing all slammed through his brain at that moment, but the sound of footsteps at the door brought him back to reality.

"How about breakfast...?" Eager man was back. He stared at the couple who were still passionately embraced, although no longer kissing as they had both abruptly paused to stare at him. His jaw fell open. Evidently he was too late in coming back with his new pick up line. He backed away, and they heard the sound of his hurried footsteps descending the staircase.

"And what was this for?" Sherlock asked, returning his intense gaze to Rose, as if they hadn't been interrupted.

"The last two years," she whispered, her cheeks now flushed with desire.

Sherlock leant forward and sampled her again, softer this time, savouring her. He hadn't intended kissing her the first time, but now the longer he drank her in and held her body against his the louder the warning bells began to sound reminding him that this was not the reason for his return. Stop this now.

"Mmm, beer," he remarked, reluctantly drawing away from Rose and looking pensive. "Peanuts, salted. So you didn't want to talk to him so you kept eating to reduce your answers to monosyllabic replies and gulped down your pint so you could leave sooner. He was never going to get another date was he?"

Rose studied him as he stepped away from her to reach back and flick the door shut. Where have you been? her eyes beseeched him. He looked so gaunt, but smelled heavenly - aftershave, shampoo. His skin was smoothly shaven and almost glowed with the vibrancy of life.

"I haven't had much luck with dates," she said somberly, but her heart hadn't quite received the message that the passion was over. "He works with me at the home entertainment store. He's been hassling me for ages so I gave in just to get him to shut up. I hate dating."

"Much more efficient if they just wave money at you," Sherlock remarked, his eyebrows raised in disdain as he brushed past her to wander about the room.

"I don't do that any more, Sherlock," she responded wearily turning to face him.

"You've redecorated," he commented, glancing about the sparse room.

"H-have I?" asked Rose, doubtfully.

"Sofa's been pushed back a foot or so, to accommodate your new side table. Painting on the wall. Wasn't here two years ago."

"Wow, how observant," she replied sarcastically. "The painting is to hide a ... patched up hole where I threw a tea cup at ... someone," she explained unapologetically. "The side table is a recent purchase. So, you're back...for good?" she asked with trepidation, eyeing his attire.

"Yes," he sighed. "My business abroad is complete. I have a new case here in London to investigate," Sherlock answered tonelessly. He looked at his watch and frowned.

He looked uneasy, and Rose wondered why he was here after all this time. Her head was swimming once again.

"Kind of hit the ground running, hey?" she remarked.

"Have dinner with me," Sherlock said abruptly, stepping closer to her again, his voice pitched low and his eyes glazed with intensity.

"I...what...where?" Her heart leapt into her mouth in that moment. Two years of loneliness and the sense of abandonment obliterated by one statement.

"A nice little place on the Marylebone Road. Fine dining. I doubt you've ever been there."

Rose wondered how on earth his actions and his words could be so mismatched. "Don't push your luck," she replied, scowling at him, but her heart still hammering in her chest.

"You might have to ... get changed, though?" he asked, running his eyes over Rose's attire.

She was wearing a plain, light blue blouse, and an equally plain and conservative linen skirt, hemmed just above her knees, with comfortable shoes, in an effort to stop the lascivious stares from male co-workers in her male-dominated workplace in the home entertainment industry, where she was employed primarily to process invoices. Her conservative attire didn't always work as a barrier to prevent unwanted attention.

"Jesus! You keep strolling into my life and finding new ways to insult me. These are my work clothes. I went straight to the pub after work with fucking, slobbering, boring man, and I didn't expect that Mister Posh-Ghost-Who-Walks was going to just show up and invite me to dinner to a fancy restaurant with a dress code."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "Is that a 'yes'?" he asked, looking at her and feeling quite puzzled at the outburst.

"Fuck off."

"Come on. You'll like it," he said encouragingly, and ignoring her abusive language. "The Winter Garden at the Landmark Hotel. John will be there."

And there it was. The third point in the triangle. "John?" Rose asked, her heart slowly returning to it's normal rhythm. "If you're having dinner with John, you should just go alone. He won't be expecting me." Rose felt that there was no way she could have a dinner date with the two of them: John knowing the truth about her relationship with Sherlock, and Sherlock being none-the-wiser about her confession to his flatmate two years earlier.

And the sex they'd almost had.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and added with a hint of amusement in his voice, "He's not exactly expecting me."

"What? Doesn't he know you're back in London?"

"Rose, he doesn't even know I'm alive! Come on, it'll be fun!" he said with glee. "We'll grab the table next to him and surprise him over pudding."

Rose was stunned at this new level of insensitivity Sherlock was demonstrating. Is he truly sociopathic or just completely ignorant? She shook her head in disbelief and exclaimed, "Sherlock, are you out of your mind! He doesn't know you're alive! You can't surprise him like that!"

"Well, what do you suggest? It's too late now to organise jumping out of a cake. Do you still do that, by the way?" he asked, narrowing his eyes inquisitively.

"Sherlock, you're an idiot!" Rose cried in exasperation. "I was upset thinking you were dead after a week. John's been believing that for two years. You can't do that to him. You don't know how he'll react."

Sherlock shrugged, immune to Rose's outburst. "He might be a bit annoyed at first, but then he'll see how clever I was. John thinks I'm the wisest man he ever met. He said so to my headstone."

Rose's eyes widened in incredulity. She said carefully, in case Rainman didn't understand, "That's the whole point, Sherlock. You're dead. The whole world thinks you're dead. Can you just...find another way? Visit him at home or something."

"No," Sherlock answered stubbornly and petulantly. "He'll be at the restaurant soon. Come with me, Rose. Let's pretend it's a date," he added, smiling like a madman.

Rose took offence at having to pretend she was on a date with Sherlock. Especially with John nearby knowing full well she was a prostitute, and the added bonus of surprising John with the revelation that his former flatmate, if now a little (more) socially inept, was still breathing.

"No, Sherlock. I won't be a part of this. I think it's an insensitive idea."

"I can't just show up by myself. What will he think?"

There appeared to be an enormous gap between what normal people would think of this situation and what Sherlock Holmes, genius, made of it. And that gap seemed to widen with each passing moment. "What will he think about you not having a date, or what will he think about you being alive?" Rose asked, her voice remaining steady despite the incredulity for Sherlock's attitude reverberating through her mind. "Because one sort of outweighs the other, Sherlock."

Sherlock impatiently checked his watch. "Look, he'll be there soon. Are you coming or not?"

"No, Sherlock," she responded, her calm manner reminiscent of a mother telling her child he cannot have a sweetie at the checkout.

Sherlock stared at Rose through narrow eyes as if he were trying to figure out why she was being so obtuse and unhelpful. He shrugged and turned to leave.

"Sherlock."

"Mmm?"

"Just say you're sorry."

"What?"

"Tell John you're sorry at the very least."

Sherlock looked at her doubtfully. Sorry for what? he thought, but he nodded faintly and then left feeling completely dejected. Now what was he going to do? he pondered morosely. He can't just walk in there by himself. Why was Rose being so uncooperative?

The sound of the door shutting returned Rose to her reality. She felt as if she'd been in a dream again. The same dream she'd been having for the last two years - the return of Sherlock Holmes.

When he'd left that morning, she had no idea it would be so long before seeing him again. One week turned into a month, then six months, and before long a year had passed, and then another. He may as well have been dead. She carried on regardless, except for the odd days where she'd remain in bed, unable to move or breathe it seemed. Those days occurred less frequently over the course of the first year of him being absent.

In the beginning, she saw him everywhere: every man wearing a long coat, any man sporting dark wavy hair, any rumble of a low baritone. She even snogged a man in a bar once because he had a posh accent. Admittedly, she was drunk at the time. She knew he was a poor substitute for Sherlock, and she came to loathe all men as a consequence. Well, she gave them more contempt than she usually reserved for the male species.

Rose set about putting a load of washing on, cleaning off her coat of toe nail polish, and eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, all while watching a pathetic black and white romance on the telly. She'd stop now and then, cuddle her Union Jack cushion and shed a tear for the heroine, thinking what bastards all men were, and why couldn't she find a man who wasn't obsessed with sex - because they all were, weren't they?

She was just washing her cereal bowl when there was a soft knock at her door. She connected the security chain and gently opened it, peering through the gap, expecting to see her neighbour who wanted to escape her drunken husband again.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He was standing there holding a tissue to his nose which was obviously bleeding.

"Could I..." he began as Rose closed the door on him and released the chain.

"Thank you," he said as she opened it up for him.

"Reunion go well did it?" Rose said sarcastically as Sherlock strode in.

He continued on into the bathroom and proceeded to clean his face. Rose tried to ignore him, although her heart was racing in his presence again, and she turned up the volume on the telly and tried to concentrate once more on the tragic romance.

"Well obviously he's going to need some time to get used to the idea," Sherlock remarked upon finishing up in the bathroom.

Turning to him and pressing mute on the telly, Rose asked, "And how did you approach him?"

"I...disguised myself as a waiter, put on a French accent and interrupted him while he was trying to propose to...someone," he finished, flapping his hand in a vague gesture of disinterest.

"You did what?" Rose was incredulous on all counts.

"Well, in hindsight it was probably not the best thing to do, but I don't see how my actions are any less silly than your jumping out of a cake to surprise someone," he stated sullenly.

"Sherlock," Rose began, looking up at him in disbelief, "Even jumping out of a cake is not an appropriate delivery method for announcing to someone that you're not, in fact, dead."

"Oh," Sherlock remarked, looking completely contrite. He sat down on the sofa next to Rose, and put his feet up on the coffee table.

Tonight hadn't gone exactly the way he had envisaged for their reunion. He thought convincing the world that he was dead for two years and single-handedly destroying James Moriarty's network in all of continental Europe was the work of pure genius. He was sure John would just shake his head and say, "Well, that was bloody brilliant, Sherlock."

"So...he punched you?" Rose asked, actually looking concerned.

"Yes. He physically attacked me several times during the conversation. The Liverpudlian kiss was his final statement of disappointment."

"Oh God. Poor John."

"Poor John? Look at me! Poor Sherlock!" the Consulting Detective protested. "I've been away for two years. I haven't exactly been living it up. John's been shacking up with someone else and carelessly growing facial hair," he finished, screwing up his face in disgust.

"What?"

"He looks ridiculous."

Rose meditated on Sherlock's words for a moment, imagining John with both a moustache and/or beard and a...fiancee. "So, he got engaged...in the end?" Rose asked, worried that Sherlock had fucked up in more than one instance.

"What? Oh, I don't know," Sherlock replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Something like that, probably."

Rose felt pity for the man. The world as he knew it had moved on without him it seemed. She wondered if he was still going to live in Baker Street. Out loud she said, "Don't you have your own home to go to now?"

Sherlock looked back at Rose sheepishly. "I haven't been back there yet. That's last on my list of stops after St Bart's and Scotland Yard.

"The hospital and the Met? That makes sense."

"I just wanted to clean myself up a bit before going to see anyone else. I don't want to alarm them unnecessarily. Has my nose stopped bleeding?" he asked, removing the new tissue he had replaced in the bathroom.

"I think so. Your lip's cut, too. Would you like an ice-pack?"

"Thank you," Sherlock replied sullenly.

John had attacked him, he thought morosely as Rose retrieved an ice-pack from her freezer for him. Physically attacked him. What on earth possessed him to do that?

As Sherlock pressed the ice-pack to his bottom lip, Rose huffed a small laugh. "Because not only are you not dead but you've been physically assaulted. I can see the horror in that for some people. How many others are you going to give the gift of your reappearance to?"

Sherlock paused to think for a moment. He hoped his other reunions were not going to be along the same lines as his one with John. "I'm going to see Molly, he answered, then qualified it with, "She's a pathologist at Bart's, and..."

"Molly?" Rose asked suspiciously. Another female. That's why he had been getting so attentive at sex, she incorrectly concluded.

"Molly Hooper. She already knows I'm alive. She helped me with the...er...fake suicide."

"Did she?" Rose asked, her face hardening. "And does she help you with your libido as well?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, perplexed.

"Did you fuck her as well? Is she really a pathologist or is she a sex worker in disguise too?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, feeling slightly alarmed at the image that came to mind of Molly Hooper as a sex worker. "I don't have predilection for finding professionals in the medical industry who moonlight as prostitutes. I assumed you were a unique case."

"So you never fucked her?"

Sherlock was appalled at the accusation. "I've only ever had sex with you, Rose," he said in a small voice.

Rose felt warmed by Sherlock's admission.

Sherlock sighed at the thought of returning to an empty flat, one which was devoid of companionship. He didn't want to press his company on Molly again. He had spent a couple of nights in her spare room two years ago, well, her room (he needed the space) and she had awkwardly and continually kept offering him cups of tea as if she didn't know what else to do with him. Sherlock just wanted...something else. No, not that. Someone to have a decent conversation with. Molly's conversation was always dotted with apologies it seemed. He cleared his throat and asked, hesitatingly, "So, I'll...er...be home later. Why don't you come 'round?"

Sherlock's words buzzed around Rose for a second. He doesn't waste any time. "What? Me?"

"Yes, you. It's my first night back in the city and I wanted to..."

"Have sex?" she finished for him.

"Catch up," he said, simultaneously.

"Oh," she remarked. "Catch up? With me?"

"Well, you know. I've been away. I don't know who won celebrity Big Brother or who got the most goals in...er...cricket. We can...chat."

Rose huffed a laugh, causing Sherlock to grin back at her. "I don't..." But Rose felt a little sad for Sherlock. He was obviously expecting to find John more receptive and welcoming. He was clearly upset that he didn't have his old friend back to sit in front of the fire with and...chat...or whatever it was they engaged in...clearly not sex.

On the other hand, Rose also had her own life to consider. These days she, perhaps unfairly, associated the name Sherlock Holmes with all of the negative aspects of her life. She didn't think she'd be able to cope emotionally with any further mental fucking up he was going to subject her to.

"I don't think I'm the right person for that," she replied.

"For 'chatting'?" he queried. "We always do that."

"Sherlock, I don't think you can just come back after all this time and expect relationships to just pick up where they left off. There's a certain amount of ... grieving and ...hurt that people have to overcome."

"What do you have to overcome? You were one of the privileged few who knew I was still alive."

"It's been two years, Sherlock. When you didn't come back I thought I must've imagined you visiting me a week after your death. I thought I was going mad. There was no trace of you. I read everything they said about you in the papers until the news went stale and even the comedians grew bored making jokes about you."

"Charming," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I found this group of nutters on the internet who believed you were alive," Rose continued, feeling a tad foolish, "...and I thought they may have had some contact with you. So I joined. The Empty Hearse they were called. I only lasted one meeting before they kicked me out."

"Why would a group of nutters kick you out?"

"Thank you, asshole! Because all they did was sit around volunteering theories about how you faked your own death. I didn't care about that. I was the only one who had actually sighted you. I told them you visited me in the week after you died and that you had a shower in my bathroom, ate a hotdog from a convenience store and slept in my bed. And no we didn't do anything, I told them."

"Rose," Sherlock began slowly. "You weren't supposed to tell anyone."

"I thought they were in contact with you! And it was months later. I really believed I was going loopy. As it turns out they thought I was delusional. One girl said you would never eat a hotdog, and the guy in charge said you'd never sleep in the same bed as a woman. One of the other girls said my story was sacrilegious."

"Sacrilegious?"

"You know...about you rising again, having your wounds cleansed. Although I find that funny," she said, laughing. "Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, too."

"Who?"

"Never mind," Rose sighed. "Anyway, they kicked me out, but at least I got a hat."

Sherlock didn't understand anything Rose had just said. Why weren't people happy he was alive? Surely that was a cause for celebration? And now she was pushing him away as John had. He swallowed hard and asked again. "But will you come over?"

Rose could feel her heart giving out. He's so alone, she thought. He just spent two years away from everyone, and we're all acting so distant. She smiled wearily at him and asked, "When will you be home?"

Sherlock brightened at Rose's apparent change of heart. "In an hour. I have to see Graham, a detective at Scotland Yard after I go to Bart's, then I'll probably need to convince my landlady to take a herbal soother. Might be best to give me a couple of hours before coming 'round."

Then he smiled quite sincerely making Rose forget her promise to herself to let the bastard go.

"I'll see you in a couple of hours then," she responded, with the butterflies in her stomach of a fifteen year old.

One hour and fifty-five minutes later, Rose once again found herself on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, but this was for a happier occasion. She'd brought a bottle of wine along with her because it was, indeed, a celebration this time. In addition, she'd also brought another couple of items for Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the door for her less than a minute after she'd pressed his buzzer. His eyes were sparkling and he grinned broadly at her. He was obviously very content to be home.

"This is for you," Rose said, handing over the cushion from her flat.

"You do know that this isn't mine," he commented, taking the cushion and examining it as they mounted the stairs together.

"I know. A friend of mine came to stay one night after a huge night out. He...er...vomitted on it in the wee hours of the morning. I had to get rid of it sorry. I tried to wash it, but it never smellt the same. I found a new one a year ago."

"Mine was square," Sherlock said forlornly as they entered his flat.

"I couldn't find a square one, but the flag is actually a rectangle anyway, so this one's more accurate," she answered, trying to put a positive spin on it.

Sherlock pitched the cushion onto John's armchair and said, "Doesn't matter. People don't notice details like that anyway. Now, what've we got here. Wine, and...?"

Rose handed Sherlock the bottle of red and held out the board game she'd also brought along. "Operation. Thought we could play."

"A board game," he said tonelessly.

"Yes! It's fun! And you'll like it," she added enthusiastically. "We get to remove foreign objects from a human body."

When Sherlock looked alarmed, Rose added, "Plastic ones, from a miniature body."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock and Rose were perched in an armchair each, studying the physical ailment pieces of the board game along with glasses of wine.

"I'll have to warn you—I possess an exceptional set of fine motor skills," Sherlock boasted, while matching up ailments to body cavities.

"Which is why we're going to modify the game a bit."

"Oh good," Sherlock said slyly. "I was thinking a mild electric shock by wiring it up to a kitchen appliance if I can somehow marry the amperege to voltage in a non-fatal combination. Hmm, your resistance would be...how dry is your skin?" he asked pensively.

"What! No!" Rose exclaimed, horrified.

"This is useless," he said, demonstrating by tapping the tweezers against the metal side of an opening in the 'body'. "It's just an irritating buzzing noise. And why is the nose lighting up like a clown? Hardly conducive to motivating you to be more careful. Now if we were to deliver an electric shock..."

"Sherlock! No! I mean...something more fun, not lethal."

"Lethal is fun," he stated matter-of-factly.

Rose didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "How we sane responsible grown-ups play is: you have to lose an item of clothing if you lose a turn. Or some people play by chugging back a drink each time, but I think we'll stick to clothing. You don't seem to be the getting drunk type."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "How is that fun? My way's better. Mild electric shock."

"Have a drink of wine, and we'll start with my way, okay? It's already late and I don't want to wait for you to rewire the whole game board."

Sherlock sighed and looked petulant. He then took a sip of wine and said, "Right. I'm going first so you can see how it's done properly."

Another ten minutes later, Rose was completely relaxed, having finished two glasses of wine. She'd lost her top, undershirt, and skirt. She was left sitting in a bra, tights and underwear. Sherlock was fully clothed of course, but he had also consumed two glasses of wine.

"You're quite hopeless at this," he murmured as he studied the angle at which he needed to grasp the wishbone.

"I am, aren't I?" Rose responded seductively.

"The trick is not to be impatient and...there, see?" he remarked, holding up the plastic bone triumphantly.

"I have my own tricks," Rose sighed. "Mmm, Butterflies in the Stomach," she read from the ailment card. The buzzer sounded and she tutted as Sherlock scoffed.

"It's a good thing you were studying Psychology and not something important like Neurosurgery," he chided as Rose stood up and began slipping off her tights.

"So, Sherlock, when was the last time you had sex?" she asked innocently.

Sherlock glanced up and replied, "Well, you'll remember. You were ther-"

He stopped as he took in the view of Rose standing in front of him in her bra and thong.

"I was, wasn't I?" she remarked, feigning innocence and dropping her tights onto the floor. "Your turn,' she said smiling and absentmindedly brushing her hair away from her neck as she sat down again, this time sideways in the chair with her legs draped over the arm.

Sherlock's gaze roamed her body momentarily before he picked up the next card.

"Adam's Apple," he said, his voice rasping slightly. "Oh, bugger!" he exclaimed as the buzzer sounded.

"Jacket," Rose said sweetly.

Sherlock stood up and shrugged off his jacket. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing either. Well played," he said fixing her with a snide grin. He turned to drape his jacket over the back of a chair near the living room table.

Rose picked Writer's Cramp, and deftly maneuvered the pencil out of the forearm. Sherlock picked Wrenched Ankle next as Rose leant forward and seductively asked him "What exactly is a Wrenched Ankle?"

Sherlock glanced at her cleavage and replied, "It's...oh fuck! Rose, put those away!" he yelled as the buzzer sounded and the patient's nose lit up.

"Shirt," she announced, chuckling to herself and leaning back into the armchair.

Sherlock stood up to unfasten his cuffs and pull his shirt out of his trousers. Rose asked him how his other reunions went.

"Fine," he answered, unbuttoning his shirt. "Avoided getting brained by a frypan, but apart from that, mostly incident-free. Although a hug from a burly Scotland Yard senior detective can be slightly disconcerting," he said, with a half-smile.

Sherlock shrugged off his shirt causing Rose to gasp.

"Oh Sherlock!" she half-whispered, horrified.

She stood up, her eyes wide as she took in the pale, almost luminous white skin of his chest and torso, and she remembered it had always been like that on all of the occasions he had been naked for her. But now it was covered in a multitude of bruises, some fading to a yellowish-green hue, some still red, blue and purple.

"It's nothing," he said quickly. He turned to drape his shirt over his jacket, and Rose caught of glimpse of his back.

Further bruises covered his back, overlaying angry red lines - lashes they looked like - and some pink with age.

"Sherlock," Rose choked. "What happened to you?"

"I wasn't exactly popular everywhere I went," he said dismissively.

Rose apologised in a half whisper, stepping closer to him.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, eyeing her curiously.

"Because I doubted you."

"Doubted me?"

"I didn't think..."

She trailed off, because that was the crux of it, wasn't it? She didn't think. Hadn't thought of why he wasn't in London, where he was or what he was going through.

Two simple thoughts crossed her mind during Sherlock's absence: he was dead or he was alive.

If dead, did he die by throwing himself off the roof of St Bart's hospital, in which case she was under some kind of psychosis imagining he had visited her, or had he died somewhere in Europe during the breaking up of criminal networks, in which case it was best not to think about that and just carry on.

If alive, was he staying away because he was an asshole? She didn't think beyond the fact that had he still been alive that his two years away were possibly spent getting the crap beaten out of him by goodness knows who; that at several times during those years he may be lying physically broken somewhere, or fighting or running for his life. She'd had no idea.

And now here he was, this beautiful man - his pure, virginal, alabaster skin all mottled with the marks of violent acts. Her heart bled for him. The man who feigned giving his life for his friends had still suffered bodily for them in his task to rid the world of those who were mercenaries and terrorists.

He'd been beaten, God knew how many times and on how many different occasions. His skin had been broken in places, lashed until it was torn and bloody. But what of his mind? Apart from the obvious and quite frankly alarming number of marks on his body, she could also tell that two years absence from London and the comforts of Baker Street had altered his physical form. He was always slim, sometimes malnourished looking, she'd thought on a couple of occasions. He was now still slim, but the muscle tone in both his arms and chest was more developed. His time away had been physically demanding for him. It had hardened his body.

But the state of his mind should not be dismissed so easily. It was clear to Rose that Sherlock didn't want to show anybody how hurt he was - how broken he was. He just wanted to carry on and take up where he'd left off. He wouldn't ask for help, or say that he needed comfort. He came back and acted like an insensitive prick to mask his insecurities. He didn't reach out for anybody. His mind had also become hardened.

But he had reached out to her, hadn't he? He came to you, Rose. He may have made light of taking you to dinner, but he did ask you to come over for a chat. But why didn't he say...

"Stay with me tonight, Rose," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper, and threatening to spill over with emotion. I'm lonely, his eyes told Rose. Don't walk out on me, too.

Rose's breath hitched but she knew what she had to do. "Of course I will," she whispered back, with conviction.

She held her hands lightly to his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders, cautious of not applying any pressure to his bruises. Sherlock had moved with her, encircling his arms around her and gazing down at her, his eyes now midnight blue with desire.

Rose lightly caressed his face, her thumb skimming his lower lip, where it had been split by the physical liberties of John Watson's objections. Sherlock parted his lips slightly at this gesture and lowered his face toward Rose's. She guided his kiss to her, both their soft lips pressed together tentatively, as if they were meeting for the first time.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shivered slightly under her light touch. He parted his lips when she did, his tongue matching hers to take, explore and taste one another. Desire pooled deep within, spreading with an agonising intensity throughout the rest of his body. He needed her, and this. Whatever this was. It filled the hollow ache that had grown inside him over the last two years.

Rose wound her arms around Sherlock's neck, allowing him to crush her soft breasts against the masculine hardness of his chest. There was no missing his desire for her with Rose almost humming in deep satisfaction as his hands roamed the curve of her back, then downwards pulling her pelvis into his.

Sherlock's lips moved from Rose's to hungrily claim her neck. She lifted her head in response, offering herself to him. His hands found their way to the thin lace of her thong, threading their way between lace and bare skin.

Her hands roamed possessively over his chest, down to the flatness of his stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. As she released him, he devoured her mouth again, and somewhere along the way Rose's bra had become unfastened. It seems some skills were not forgotten after two years. Rose's body slowly began to burn with a new heat at the thought of what other skills Sherlock had not forgotten.

They both were left in their underwear when they came up for air.

"I thought I'd won," he whispered, against her lips.

"What?" she murmured in response, her heart now racing in time to his.

"The game," he said, glancing in the direction of the sidetable. "Even if you took the last piece," he continued, his lips brushing over her face in a light caress, "I had most of them. But if this was your intention," he gestured by gently pressing his hardness into her, "then clearly you have won."

Rose smiled against his lips as he returned to kiss her.

"Shall we take this game elsewhere?" she asked.

Sherlock took her hand in response and led her to his room, the board game forgotten.

Nobody was going to be lonely tonight.

.