Chapter 17 - Let's Do Deductions
Sherlock wallowed in sullen self-pity. What did he care if he lived or died from some debilitating disease? He had just spent two years making spur of the moment, life or death decisions, and not any of them preceding an activity as exhilarating as this. Well, actually, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins, that came pretty close.
Sex with Rose without the use of a condom was going to be his next life or death decision, at least according to Rose, but she had put an abrupt end to their foreplay by stating, "I don't make any exceptions," and promptly left the room to obtain her handbag and therefore the prophylactics.
When she returned less than a minute later, Sherlock found a way to emerge from his enormous sulk long enough to rake his eyes over Rose's body, appreciative of the fact that she left the bedroom to wander about his flat completely naked.
"Now that was the absolute wrong attitude to have, Mr Holmes," Rose said sternly while she rummaged in her bag for the condoms. "Don't ever let me hear about you considering that option again. It is no option as far as I'm concerned."
Sherlock shrugged non-commitedly. "Stupid invention."
Rose place a condom packet down on Sherlock's bedside table and then pulled open the drawer. "I'm going to put some in here, and perhaps you can buy some yourself."
Sherlock ignored Rose's suggestion, the remnants of his massive sulk still lingering. "I don't have any diseases," he stated emphatically.
Rose was slightly amused at both Sherlock's arrogance and his ignorance. "Well perhaps I do?"
Sherlock peered at Rose through narrow eyes. Of course he'd scanned her every time he had encountered her. This time, especially after two years, was no different. "No, you don't."
"How do you know?" she challenged.
"I would've noticed the symptoms," he said matter-of-factly. "And besides, my tongue has been just about everywhere my penis has, and I don't see you insisting I wrap that in latex."
"Now that would be funny," Rose laughed. "Might stop you talking so much."
Sherlock ignored Rose's jibe. "Anyway," he began, scrutinising Rose as she sat on the bed next to his outstretched legs. "According to the recommended health and safety protocols observed by people in your industry, you should've been using a condom while performing oral sex on me."
"Really?" Rose asked in amusement, not so much in surprise of the information he imparted but that Sherlock knew about it. "Well I took a calculated risk and assumed you didn't have any nasty diseases," she stated defiantly. "And during our first time together you were annoying me, so I thought I'd just surprise you by going down on you."
Sherlock's face flickered with hurt momentarily before he resumed his sullen composure. "I was annoying you?"
"Yes," Rose laughed, thinking nothing of her reply.
Sherlock stared unblinking at Rose, his face still and he spoke with his voice remaining even. "Do I always annoy you?"
He didn't know why the answer to that question was important, or why he felt vulnerable in that moment.
Rose smiled and then slowly leaned forward just enough until their lips almost touched. She whispered breathily, "Sometimes. Now do you want to have sex with me or not?"
Sherlock felt a twinge deep in the pit of his stomach. His physical arousal hadn't completed disappeared with Rose pausing their antics to retrieve the protection, but his emotional investment had started to wane in her one minute absence. "Yes," he sighed against her lips, his eyelids heavy with desire.
"Then stop talking."
Rose pressed her lips to Sherlock's and they didn't waste anytime resuming the level of raw passion they'd obtained earlier in the living room. Sherlock parted his lips, inviting Rose in, and his tongue met hers, causing a sharp arousal to spread throughout her core.
His arms wound around her shoulders, his fingers finding her hair. He held her to him while he tasted her, exploring her and deepening their kiss. As his slender hands drifted down Rose's spine and then along her side until he was skimming her breasts, Rose moaned in deep satisfaction. That sound, so primal in its surrender burnt through Sherlock making his heart thunder inside his chest.
Rose broke their kiss long enough to rearrange herself on top of Sherlock, straddling him, feeling his hard length beneath her. He gasped as she applied pressure and then resumed kissing him. Sherlock could feel his control slipping. The general wariness, default mistrust and suspicion he felt for most other people he had encountered during the last two years were slowly being eroded from his cerebral cortex. He was going to give everything to Rose, to this maddening woman who was consuming him with her own needs and wild passion.
He was letting her take charge of him physically, and he didn't know whether his emotions became part of the deal at this point in time. His brain was shutting down once more - all logic and reason were shutting up shop for the long weekend.
Rose shifted and navigated along his chest with small kisses and nibbles, and he knew at once her intended destination.
"No," he reluctantly commanded, and he gently cradled her face in his hands until she ceased her descent. "No, I won't last," he reiterated feebly. "It's been too long."
Two years. Two long years without the physical contact of another human being, unless you counted exchanging blows as physical contact. He hadn't thought about this at all. Rose and sex had never even entered his mind during that time. In fact, he hadn't let anyone from his former life dare invade his thoughts. He couldn't be hindered by sentiment, or blinded by his feelings for even one second. One purpose, one goal only had been his priority: destroy Moriarty's network.
Sherlock pushed Rose backwards onto the mattress, a predatory glint in his eyes that made Rose's whole body tremble with a desperate hunger for his touch. It was as if she had waited two whole years for this.
She could've had sex with anybody during that time really, in fact she did - just the once though, about a year ago. She was drunk at a party thrown for Jessica Teiller, a former uni friend, who was jetting off to become a volunteer counsellor in Ghana. Jessica's cousin was a police detective, and Rose was attracted to his stories of life up against the criminal element. Of course that was Detective Inspector Dimmock's ultimate aim - to impress a young woman with his accomplishments, recounting the highlight of his career so far: the nabbing of a couple of Chinese assassins and the breaking up of an Asian artifact smuggling ring. Rose had sex with him in a nightclub toilet, a spur of the moment decision which she immediately regretted afterwards. Sherlock Holmes he was not.
Sherlock observed Rose's eyes darken before he devoured her throat. He felt her pulse racing as he raked his mouth, teeth and tongue under her jaw. She pressed his body to her, small whimpers escaping her lips. She no longer cared for restraint. This was all about her, and him. If she'd known he would return she would have waited five years to have this with him and no one else. Perhaps longer.
Sherlock took his time, moving agonisingly slowly for Rose. His hands roamed where his tongue did not, stroking her breasts and along her stomach. She moaned, her whole body fiercely responsive and she moved against him, sending his own arousal soaring until he throbbed and ached for her touch.
But he wouldn't enter her just yet. How good your are, Rose's words from a life ago echoed back to him, is how well you satisfy your partner. He remembered the challenges now, and paused his efforts to unhinge Rose by looking back up at her, to quietly observe his progress. Rose gasped, her chest heaving. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Just checking you were okay with this," he replied, his eyes twinkling, for he knew the answer already.
"Don't stop," she pleaded.
Sherlock chuckled and resumed his task.
Sherlock Holmes - super sleuth, the wisest man John Watson had ever met, the most human ... human being, the original Consulting Detective, smarter than Scotland Yard's finest, able to penetrate eastern European organised crime networks with a single disguise - was actually good at fucking.
And he had obtained the services of a specialist in the industry and was making her beg him for it.
He truly was multi-talented.
Seeing Rose writhing on the precipice only made him feel more powerful and his need to be inside her blinded him. When he paused again, Rose, in complete sync with Sherlock's desires, reached over for the condom and held it out to him. He snatched it from her, and resumed his efforts, simultaneously ripping the condom from the packet and slipping it on.
He drove into her in one swift movement, moaning at the same time Rose gasped.
Fucking like a man just out of prison, Rose thought deliriously, although her body arched, welcoming the invasion.
As if Sherlock had heard her thoughts, or the same notion had occurred to him, he slowed down his frenzied pace, making his thrusts deeper and longer, and he pressed his lips to her neck. Rose locked her legs around him and guided his face to hers.
She had wanted him to make love to her, desperately wanting this to be love, but somewhere in the back of her mind she thought the man wasn't capable of the sentiment. Still, she had imagined this moment over the last couple of years and didn't want their 'first time' back together again to be some casual, if not mind-blowing, fuck.
He responded accordingly, dipping his head and crushing his mouth against hers. Her hands around his torso pulled him in tighter and she raked her hands along his back. As Sherlock gasped at the desperateness of her gesture, she mistook his utterance as discomfort with the image of his violent lashes and scars jolting her back to reality. She cried out in a whimper against his lips, her eyes glistening once more with tears. Sherlock pulled back and looked into her eyes, his brow furrowed.
"Rose, what's wrong?"
"I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head slightly. "I'm sorry. You were all alone."
Sherlock bent his head until their foreheads touched. "Shhh," he said. He kissed her downturned mouth until she blinked her tears away. "I'm fine," he whispered. "I have you now," he added hoarsely.
Rose sniffed a couple of times, indicating she was still very emotional. The sex was all but forgotten, except for the minor detail that Sherlock was still inside her. Her crying hadn't abated, and he felt just a bit awkward that he was listening to this, still hard, but the mood was rapidly waning.
He gently pulled out of her and lay down alongside her. As his arms were roughly still around her, he pulled her in closer to him. Physically comforting those who were upset was quite foreign to him, but for some reason, this felt like an entirely natural response. Sherlock's heart felt heavy as Rose quietly sobbed and curled into his chest. His mouth went dry and an unfamiliar pressure manifested itself in his tear ducts. Rose had been the only person in his life to have reacted to the horror of his experiences. Most others had merely responded to what they perceived was his insensitivity as to how they felt at being deceived these last two years, and didn't spare a thought to him sacrificing his life for them. And he hadn't exactly been sunning himself in Ibiza all that time.
Sherlock rested his chin on top of Rose's head as her sobs died down to intermittent shudders. She sniffed one final time and tilted her head. He gazed down at her and gave her a polite smile, the smile of someone waiting and willing for the over-emotional response in another to just be over with.
"Are you okay?" Rose asked him through tear-stained eyes.
"I'm always okay," he reassured her, his smile warming her.
Rose reached up and caressed the side of his face as Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes briefly, enjoying her soft touch. "I'm sorry," she whispered again. "This isn't the welcome back you deserve."
He opened his eyes again. "It's perfect," he responded in a low voice, then closed the gap between them with a tentative kiss on Rose's lips.
They took it slowly, lying side by side, rekindling the passion that had never quite dissipated. They kept pace with one another and when Rose demanded more, Sherlock gave willingly, until tenderness gave way to impatience from both of them.
Sherlock studied her, soft and pliant underneath him as he drove deeper inside her. She moved her hips against him, encouraging him, to take her harder and faster.
When Rose's body shuddered with her final surrender, her abandonment of all restraint, Sherlock realised that he had taken something from her that did not belong to him. And then his own tumultous release slammed into his brain, blanking his thoughts as his body was wracked with the overwhelming sensations of his orgasm.
Rose clung to Sherlock as he bowed his head onto her shoulder, twin hearts racing, and their breathing both heavy and hot.
"Let go now, Rose," he said to her surprise, and when she did so he rolled from her and lay on his back next to her.
Rose waited a beat, and then rolled on to her side, sliding over in order to rest her head on Sherlock's chest.
"Don't touch me," he said abruptly.
Rose froze. "What's wrong?" she asked in alarm.
"Don't like to be touched. Senses heightened," Sherlock replied, speaking as if words were at a premium too.
Rose lay back down again on her own side of the bed and listened to Sherlock's breathing. She had felt completely elated and content post-orgasm, but she now doubted her role in Sherlock's life, or bed, for that matter.
Sherlock's mind was still in that blanked out state of the refractory period. He struggled to rebuild his anti-emotion wall, before too much sentiment flooded in. In the few seconds after his orgasm, and while Rose still had her arms around him, he felt completely connected to her - this woman who'd shown sympathy and, dare he think it, love toward him. And then the wall went back up and he felt sickened by the idea.
He quickly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. With his back to Rose, he said, "Just going to clean up," before disappearing into his bathroom.
Rose's mind was in a turmoil. Should she stay now or go? She should at least gather up her clothes which were dumped on the floor in the living room. She pulled on her knickers which she found on the bedroom floor, the only garment to have made it that far. She heard Sherlock finishing up in the bathroom and hastened to the living room for the remainder of her clothes.
Rose had just found her bra near Sherlock's chair and had stooped to pick it up when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom wrapped in a scarlet dressing gown.
"Are you leaving?" he enquired in a worried tone, which confused Rose.
"I'm..." She hesitated, unsure of what decision to make.
"It's quite late," he said, walking closer. "Why don't you just stay? Get a cab in the morning."
Sherlock had no intention of having sex with Rose again that night. But he knew, deep down, that his mild panic at having to spend another night alone was affecting his decision making. The nights abroad were always the worst. He could never sleep comfortably, he'd have to remain ever vigilant and the slightest noise would keep him awake anyway. He just didn't want to spend his first night back in London without the feeling of someone close to him - someone who was unlikely to slit his throat in the dark.
"I...um...I don't start work til late tomorrow anyway," she gushed nervously. "I'd rather just go home so I can sleep in a bit."
"Stay here. Sleep as long as you want. I won't bother you. I can't sleep these days and when I do, I promise you, I don't snore."
His eyes bore into her, but Rose emitted a small laugh anyway. The idea of staying over sounded very attractive indeed. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't being as dismissive in bed as she initially thought. "Sure. Thanks. I don't snore either," she said, braving a smile back at him.
"Well, I'll join you later. I have some research to do first." He turned around and walked through the kitchen to the sink. As Rose picked up her remaining articles of clothing, Sherlock asked, "Unless you want tea?" He held up the kettle and gave Rose a wide grin, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
"I might just turn in," she said apologetically. "It's way past my bedtime."
She strode over to Sherlock and he allowed her to give him a small peck on the cheek. She bade him goodnight and retired to his bedroom. She dumped her clothes down on a chair, then slipped into the sheets wearing just her underwear. She wondered when Sherlock would join her, and if he would wake her up for another round. It didn't take long for her to fall into a contented sleep, dreaming of Sherlock making love to her.
When Rose awoke the next morning, the cause of which was a full bladder, she found Sherlock's side of the bed empty but thankfully not too cold. She had no idea when he had joined her, noting that he didn't wake her up to have sex. She made a quick trip to the bathroom then grabbed a robe from behind the door and braved a visit to the living room. Sherlock was staring into the fire, feeding it logs, bathed in a warm glow.
Rose was in two minds whether or not to interrupt his thought process.
"Morning," she said, almost too quiet to register as she slowly approached him.
Sherlock turned anyway. "Good morning," he said quite pleasantly.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest and shivering slightly.
"I did, for a couple of hours at least." He smiled weakly.
He looked tired, she thought. Wonder why the poor man can't sleep? Probably classic PTSD.
"I'm not usually up this early." She yawned as if to demonstrate this fact.
"I take it you don't normally rise before eleven," Sherlock remarked, settling back into his armchair as the fire roared into life beside him.
"Sounds about right. What time is it?"
"Just before six I think."
"Oh God. Well, I'm going back to sleep. Is that all right? My shift doesn't start until after lunch."
"Oh, sleep as long as you like," Sherlock replied pleasantly. "I may just duck out when the corner store opens at seven. I seem to have run out of everything. Mrs Hudson even turned my fridge off," he lamented, glancing toward the kitchen. "I guess she figured nobody was going to use it."
Rose yawned once more, and waved a tired hand at Sherlock before retiring to his bedroom. She was asleep in almost an instant, finding Sherlock's bed enormously comfortable, and finding the thought of Sherlock nearby enormously comforting.
A couple of hours later, she stirred from her slumber, awoken by the sound of a woman's voice.
"I expect he's just dashed out," came the voice from the vicinity of the kitchen.
It sounded like Sherlock's landlady, Rose thought, for she had been let into the flat a few times now by the woman. Suspecting that the voices were coming closer, and operating in a mild panic, Rose flew off the side of the bed and onto the floor between bed and tall boy. There was a tokenistic knock, and then the door opened just a tiny bit.
"Sherlock?" came Mrs Hudson's tentative call. "I'm sure he can't be too far away," she said, turning to the unseen visitor. "Just leave me your details..."
Her voice died away as the pair left the flat and descended the stairs. Rose sighed and climbed back onto the bed feeling dishevelled and a tiny bit silly. She was an adult, for Christ's sake, in an adult relationship - in a consenting adult relationship, in the bedroom of the man who had invited her there. Why should she have hidden?
The remnants of a discreet industry, she concluded. Backdoor liaisons, sneaking around, false names, dirty secrets. Was she Sherlock's dirty little secret?
Rose lay back down, glancing at the clock as she did so. 8:17am. Oh God, far too early for visitors, she yawned. She drifted in and out of sleep for the next three-quarters of an hour. Sherlock's bed was way too comfortable.
Mrs Hudson had left the door slightly ajar when she'd left, so Rose had no trouble hearing Sherlock's rapid ascent on the stairs upon his return. At least, she hoped it was Sherlock. The confidence of the footsteps through the kitchen toward the bedroom, and the light rustle of shopping bags seemed to indicate that it was, indeed, the detective.
"Rose!" he said, eagerly as he pushed his bedroom door open wider and strode in. He upended his shopping onto the bed and said, gleefully, "Look at these!"
Rose groggily sat up, and found she was surrounded by a haphazard arrangement of condom boxes.
"Um, what?"
"Condoms!" he announced unnecessarily. "You said I should buy my own, but you didn't specify a brand. I can't believe you never gave me a choice. Look," he said, as Rose struggled to awake fully and comprehend what the detective-genius was gabbling on about. "Pleasure gels," he said thrusting a box into her face, but not noticing that it was too close for her to even focus on it. He was too absorbed in grabbing the next box on the bed. "Extra safe, Intimate Feel, Pleasure Me," he said, holding up each box in turn. "Pleasure who?" he asked quizzically, examining the back of the box. "Ribbed and dotted for extra stimulation. Doesn't specify," he muttered.
"Sherlock."
"The single most interesting fact about these, Rose, is that there is no standardisation of measurement. Look - thin feel, intimate feel, extra thin feel, ultra thin feel. Which is the thinnest? Is ultra thinner than extra, or intimate? There is no scale, Rose!"
"Okay," Rose responded in a small voice, pulling the blanket up higher.
Sherlock turned to look at the naked woman before him and said, his eyes blazing with intense determination, "We can test them all, Rose!"
Rose's eyes widened in terror.
"I'm going to create a spreadsheet, then we can categorise each one in terms of sensation for both of us, durability, ease of use, and accuracy of package labelling. You're in the perfect industry for this!" he exclaimed, rising from the bed.
He shrugged off his jacket, as Rose frowned at his comment about this being her industry.
"And this is the tip of the iceberg, Rose. This is only a subset of the market," he mused, draping his jacket over a chair. "These are the latex ones," he said, sweeping his hand in the direction of the packages on the bed. "There's also the newer polyisoprene. Our research could influence standardisation in packaging."
Rose cleared her throat. "You want to test these now?" she croaked.
"No," he replied condescendingly as he grabbed at his dressing gown from the back of the door. "Later, you know - every other time." He pulled on the dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. "When we've finished, I'll write a new blog post about it. I have a website," he announced proudly.
Rose was frightened. Very frightened. "I've seen it," Rose all but whispered.
"But right now, I have a terrorist organisation to catch." He raised his eyebrows as if to conclude the conversation, and then swept out of the bedroom.
Thank God for terrorists, Rose thought, sliding fully under the covers and making some of the condom packages fall to the floor.
A few minutes later Sherlock was back. He opened the door wider and spoke quickly in a low voice, "Just leave this open. My brother's on his way up. He'll suspect something's up if my door's closed."
Rose pulled the blanket down off her face and looked annoyed at the continual interruption. "I think he was here earlier," she said sulkily.
"No, that was a potential client. Mrs Hudson gave me his details and he left his stupid hat." And then he pressed a finger to his lips before leaving the room as Rose heard another male voice call, "Sherlock?"
Brother, pondered Rose. What would Sherlock Holmes' brother be like? The same? She strained to listen to their exchange, fighting the impulse to just stroll out there - probably not naked. Wow, there are two of them. How did I not know this? Could I have contacted the brother during the last two years? Had he known about Sherlock faking his own death too?
And Sherlock had indicated that she keep quiet. So she was his dirty little secret. Wonderful. But he did want to have sex with her at least - how many more times? Rose surveyed the boxes around her, and looked over the side of the bed at the boxes that had fallen to the floor - at least thirteen more times. Looks like they had a future after all, she thought disdainfully.
Rose lay back wishing she had thought to have gone to the bathroom again earlier. She looked around Sherlock's room, noting that nothing at all seemed to have changed since she was last in it, two years prior. His whole flat appeared to have been preserved as a shrine to him.
The low male voices continued on in a constant stream of banter, or serious discussion; Rose couldn't tell which. But then she heard the unmistakeable sound of the buzzer from the Operation game. Surely not? Perhaps Sherlock was showing his brother... perhaps telling him about the game he played with a ... prostitute. Rose's heart sank a little. Did Sherlock still think that of her? He had said, 'Your industry,' during his little monologue about condoms. And he wasn't referring to either the mental health profession or the home entertainment industry in that context, of this she was sure.
The Holmes brothers' voices grew louder, but not out of anger. They were speaking rapidly to each other, which Rose found quite amusing. The brother was obviously as sharp as Sherlock, and she wondered if he were younger or older. Two of them! She was fascinated by the notion. She really wanted to meet Holmes the Other.
The discussion seemed to come to an end, punctuated by the laughter of a woman, possibly the landlady, who must have re-entered the flat at one stage, Rose deduced. As the flat lay in silence once more, Rose drifted in and out of sleep. About an hour later, she woke again, listening to the sounds in the flat. She couldn't hear anything and assumed that Sherlock was quietly working away at something, unless he'd gone out again. She sat up, leant against the headboard, and lazily scrutinised a condom packet she picked up from the bedcovers at random.
Oh my God, she remarked to herself. Charged with orgasmic pleasure, she read in horrified curiosity. Deep ribbed designed for maximum stimulation and contains an intensified lube to warm and excite. Warm and excite, she repeated in her head. Sherlock does that to me all by himself. I don't need a manufactured latex product to do that. My sweet Lord, what'll they think of next? She picked up the next one. Climax control lubricant, contains benzocaine. For fuck's sake! And Sherlock's wants to do an in depth study of these! All she ever required in "her industry" was extra lubrication. Loads of it.
"May have to think seriously about what would constitute a suitable control," Sherlock drawled from the doorway. He was casually leaning against it, quietly observing her.
"A control?"
"Something against which we can compare them. The most obvious would be no condom at all."
"Um, not going to happen, sorry."
Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly. He entered the room pulling off his dressing gown and asked, "Are you going to stay there all day? Somebody tweeted that I'm alive and suddenly I'm inundated with clients this morning."
Rose dropped the box and sat up. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize things had got so busy. I'll just get..."
"No, no," Sherlock began, interrupting her. He reached for his jacket and said, rather sheepishly, "I just thought you'd like to come out and ... help me solve cases ... if you're not doing anything this morning other than sleeping."
"Um..."
"First client's at eleven."
Rose glanced at the clock. It was 10:36.
She smiled back at Sherlock who was looking at her with a hopeful expression. Perhaps she wasn't such a dirty little secret after all, just one to keep from his brother then. And if she'd really thought about it, she would've remembered that he did invite her along to dinner to surprise John only last night.
"I'd love to. Do I have time to have a quick shower?"
"Sure," Sherlock answered, a grin spreading across his face as he pulled on his jacket. "Come out when you're ready. "
He winked at her and took off back to the kitchen, leaving Rose to shower and dress. She let the water cascade over her, but conscious of keeping her hair from getting wet. She still couldn't figure Sherlock out. He's lonely, she kept thinking to herself over and over. He's just lonely.
Once she'd showered and dressed herself in yesterday's clothes she entered the living room to find Sherlock staring at the wall above the couch. It was plastered with maps, photos and lists.
"Wow, you've been busy this morning," she remarked, stepping closer in order to examine the montage.
"An underground terrorist network is planning an attack on the city," he murmured almost to himself. He turned to Rose when she gasped, and added, "Nothing for you to be alarmed about."
"Great," she responded. "Any places I should avoid? The tube? Buckingham Palace?"
"Too soon to tell, but then again I've only been working on the case for a couple of hours, and part of that was playing Operation with Mycroft," Sherlock said, one corner of his mouth curving into a smile. He gestured toward the board game.
"Mike Roft?"
"My brother."
"Oh." And then after a moment or two, Rose ventured, "What's he like?"
Sherlock gave Rose a stern look, thinking she had designs on propositioning his brother, which would be a rather amusing social experiment to witness, if anything else. He replied, "Don't even think about it."
Rose frowned and replied defensively, "I wasn't thinking about anything - just that you have a brother and I wondered if he was anything like you."
"He's smarter than me, but as I have all the energy in the family he constantly refers cases to me. Perhaps if he moved around a bit more he wouldn't have to be perpetually dieting," Sherlock said under his breath. He returned his attention back to the wall in front of him, which prompted Rose to do the same.
She was about to make a comment about Sherlock's brother who diets, when she was momentarily distracted by a photo on the wall.
"Hey, I've seen that guy," she said pointing.
"You've probably seen him in the press. Lord Moran, the current Minister for Overseas Development. I'm having him watched."
"I don't think I've seen him in the press. I hardly read newspapers any more." Not since they started writing horrible things about you, Rose thought. "I think I've seen him on the tube."
"Doubt it, Rose. He has a peerage. He'd have a private car at his disposal." He turned to scrutinise Rose through narrow eyes, which she found slightly disconcerting. "Perhaps he paid a visit to you in the broth—"
"No!"
"Does happen," Sherlock added, shrugging.
"I've never had sex with him."
"Sucked him off in a private car," Sherlock muttered.
"Sherlock!"
"What? Why are you being so sensitive? These are the words you've spoken to me on more than one occasion."
"I don't... I don't do that anymore."
Sherlock shrugged and raised his eyebrows in a couldn't care less attitude. He resumed his examination of the wall.
"I did see him on the tube," Rose brooded.
After a moment's silence where they were both studying the wall, Rose ventured, "And what exactly did you want me to do concerning your cases this morning?"
"Whatever you like—listen in, ask questions, exchange incredulous looks with me," he added with a playful glint in his eyes.
"Okay," Rose responded, returning Sherlock's smile. "But you're very good at this. Why do you need me?"
"Yes I am very good at what I do, Rose. And it is this contrast between brilliance and mediocrity that a companion such as yourself and John Watson so ably provides." Rose frowned slightly at Sherlock's words, however he continued, unabated. "But I don't need someone just to highlight my obvious talents. My track record with solving cases speaks for itself. It's the fact that I can read a crime scene the way that you and John can read people. You know, you get inside their heads, and their underwear too if I leave you alone with them long enough."
"Thank you," Rose responded with a hint of sarcasm.
"I might miss something - a look, a sob, a pathetic whimper concerning feelings or something else equally insipid," Sherlock said with a look of distaste. "John used to wallow in those. I expect you're the same."
"Thank you again. You are asking me to help you aren't you?"
Sherlock looked at Rose in exasperation. "I just need a second set of eyes and ears, Rose. It's very useful to me."
"Fine," she replied automatically. Then she smiled. "It actually sounds like fun."
Sherlock thanked Rose, hoping he wasn't making a mistake. His wishful thinking was rather short-lived, however. His first client, Rachel Howells, a very young distraught lady from Wales, wanted Sherlock to investigate her wayward boyfriend. She could barely get a coherent word out, and if it wasn't for Rose taking a seat next to her on the couch and holding her hand they wouldn't have got past the word 'bastard!'
In calming Ms Howells down, Rose established that the unfaithful Mr Brunton may not have had a relationship with her at all, and that she had misread the signs of the friendship they had initially established in their workplace. Ms Howells was able to see, through Rose's gentle guidance, that she had been projecting her own fantasies onto Brunton, and that there was no need to investigate an infidelity of any kind.
Once the footsteps had died away and the sound of the front door clicking shut punctuated the air, Sherlock looked back at Rose and tutted.
"Case solved!" Rose said brightly, picking up both hers and Ms Howell's tea cups from the coffee table.
"There was no case, Rose," Sherlock said irately.
"There was. And I solved it."
"No, you didn't. You see, I solve cases. You solve people."
"I did, didn't I?" Rose said, laughing. She brushed past Sherlock as she made her way into the kitchen. "Oh, and it's half past. I should get going. Think you can solve the rest without me?"
"I think I can manage," he replied sullenly. He cleared his throat and said, "And perhaps that was a good thing you did with the...ah...hand holding. That seemed to calm her down a bit."
"Yes, Sherlock. There's no reason why you can't do that. You may get more information out of people that way."
Sherlock cast his mind back to the time he ripped a shock blanket from the shoulders of a distraught house mistress outside a boarding school in Surrey, then proceeded to yell at her. That method also worked particularly well. But perhaps there was a time and a place for yelling abuse and another for holding hands and speaking softly. He had no trouble shedding crocodile tears. He'd done that a few times now, to extract information from people. Perhaps he could go one step further and hold hands when the situation called for it.
"That was fun, Sherlock. It really was," Rose remarked after rinsing the tea cups. "I'll have to go before your 11:45 client though."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought of Rose finding his job amusing and a small distraction from her 'real work' as she disappeared into the bedroom to retrieve her bag. He thought despondently about having to conduct the rest of the consultations alone. And Rose just wasn't suited to distancing herself from the woes of his clients. If she kept convincing them all that their problems were in their heads, he would end up without any cases to solve. Still, a corpse was a corpse. And there was a skeleton found in a wall that had Scotland Yard stumped. He looked forward to sinking his teeth into that one later today.
He browsed his email inbox on his phone. The other cases all seemed rather dreary, and to have to wade through them solo would be mind-numbingly boring at best. His face hardened at the thought of John Watson and his stupid new life. And his equally stupid mustache. Now who could he recruit to help him solve crimes? Someone who admired his brilliance, who wouldn't be too intrusive, and possessed a small amount of intelligence as to not be annoying.
Ah.
Molly Hooper.
He quickly composed a text message to his faithful pathologist.
Molly, please stop by during your lunch break if you have one. If you don't, stop by anyway. I have an offer for you that is too good to refuse. -SH
He pressed Send just as Rose re-entered the living room. "Off to my real job," she said pleasantly. "Not as fascinating as yours, but plenty of head-cases out on the sales floor just begging to be examined."
"Sales floor? And what exactly are you selling?" Sherlock asked, frowning.
"You don't know where I work do you?"
Sherlock shrugged, reaching down into the basement of his Mind Palace and coming up with something hazy. "An adult entertainment shop?"
"A home entertainment store," Rose corrected him, laughing. "There's a huge difference. And I personally don't sell anything. I'm in the office out the back, processing invoices for large screen TVs, computers and media players. I thought you knew that?"
"Wasn't really listening," Sherlock responded unapologetically.
"Clearly not," Rose commented, pulling on her jacket. "So, I'll see you...later, I guess."
Sherlock was momentarily distracted by his phone buzzing. He checked it as Rose exited onto the landing, adjusting her jacket and her handbag in an effort to delay leaving.
"Bye, Sherlock," she said, smiling wanly.
See you at one, came the reply text from Molly.
"Ah...oh, yes. Bye Rose," Sherlock said, finally looking up from his phone.
The doorbell downstairs buzzed as Sherlock stepped out onto the landing. Rose's heart skipped as Sherlock bent his head and kissed her chastely on the cheek.
"Thank you, Rose," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, "for staying."
"Just go right up," Mrs Hudson's voice floated up to them, and they heard the sound of multiple footsteps on the staircase.
"Oh, Rose!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly remembering something. He reached inside his jacket and retrieved his wallet. Rose's heart sank as he pulled out a handful of fifty pound notes. "I grabbed this when I was out this morning," he said hurriedly before the footsteps rounded the corner. "I know we didn't negotiate, but take this now," he added, thrusting the notes into the hand Rose had raised in order to wave him off, "and I can give you more later, if four hundred isn't enough."
"Sherlock, no, I-"
Rose's protest was cut short as Sherlock's attention was drawn to the elderly couple who appeared on the stairs below them. Rose closed her hand around the notes and dropped her arm to her side.
"Ah, Mr and Mrs Peterson?" Sherlock asked them cordially.
Rose stepped back toward the closed door to the kitchen to allow the couple to step up onto the landing, and managed to direct a small, polite smile to them.
"This way," Sherlock directed them, ushering them into the living room. He glanced back and winked at a still stunned Rose, and then entered his living room after his clients.
Rose's heart beat dully in her chest, and her eyes stung once more.
Nothing, Rose, she thought as she descended the stairs. You're nothing to him - just a common, garden variety whore.
.
