Chapter 18: Gunpowder, Treason and Pot

"If you're looking for your stash of marijuana," Sherlock began, speaking in lazy disinterest, "I've moved it inside the cover of the green cushion on the floor, the one kicked under the bed. Kind of appropriate, that it's a green cushion with a leafy design on it." He chuckled at his own ingenuity.

Rose's whole demeanour hardened even further. She wanted the man out of her flat. Not only had he broken into her residence while she was at work, and reorganised her underwear drawer out of boredom, but he had also found her weed and took it upon himself to find another location in which to hide it.

She sighed and dropped to the floor. She called through the bedroom doorway, "Get the fuck out of my flat!" and then bent low to retrieve the dusty cushion from its resting place underneath the bed.

Rose had returned home after obtaining a lift from Tracey Yale, her immediate supervisor. She hated the three block walk from Bayswater Station back to her flat that late at night, and it was a saving grace she could obtain a regular lift from Tracey on the odd nights she worked. She had waved Tracey goodbye at the kerb, then proceeded into the Leinster Gardens block of flats. She was mentally exhausted, and grabbed at her earlobe to yank it a couple of times, a slight relief from the dull ache she'd been feeling there all evening.

Shower, peaceful bonding with Mary Jane, then bed. Not her usual routine, but the addition of the marijuana had become a necessity on nights such as these. She last indulged a little over six months ago, so it wasn't like she had an addiction problem. Was it?

She had let herself into her first floor flat, hand poised to turn on the light switch the second she opened the door, but she was momentarily thrown by the fact that it was already on.

"Ah, Rose," Sherlock remarked, not moving from his reclined position on her small sofa.

Barefooted, in his shirt and trousers, stretched out lengthways, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, his jacket folded in half lengthways and draped over a nearby armchair along with his coat and scarf - he looked perfectly comfortable and at home. In her home.

Rose's stomach churned and dropped a few inches. And then the lead weight was replaced by the light flutter of butterflies. It wasn't as if Sherlock had been far from her thoughts. He had occupied her mind, a constant background hum, since she had left his flat at lunchtime. Her feelings see-sawed between unrequited love for him, and disgust with herself for ever thinking she meant more to him that a paid bed-fellow.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" She fired her questions at him, striding toward him on the sofa after dumping her bag down onto the armchair. He barely moved.

"Basic five pin lock system," he drawled. "Hardly secure. I merely had to rake along the pins-"

"Sherlock," Rose sighed wearily. "I'm not in the mood."

She turned and headed toward her bedroom as Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and sat up.

"Where were you anyway?" he asked in irritation.

Rose stopped in her doorway and turned to look at him, an incredulous look on her face. She couldn't believe his attitude. Did he really think she owed him an explanation?

"I was at work, and it's none of your business."

Sherlock stood up, and slowly walked over to her. Looking bored he pointed out, "Your hair's a bit..." he waggled his fingers in the air, "squashed, where you were wearing one of those phone headset thingies; you keep touching your right ear as if it irritates you from having the earpiece attached for a few hours; you smell like..," he paused, sniffing, "..instant coffee bought in bulk and your hands smell like the kind of antiseptic handsoap they buy in poorly funded organisations." He stopped in front of her and shoved his hands into his pockets, raising his eyebrows in a challenging expression. "Office, phone, late night, former prostitute: phone sex worker," he concluded smugly.

Rose narrowed her eyes at him and frowned. "I hate you. Please leave." Then she turned and slammed her bedroom door shut.

"Oh, I..." Sherlock confessed to the closed door, and not really respecting Rose's last request.

"What the hell!" Rose yelled from within, and then re-opened her bedroom door.

"...may have rearranged some things a bit," he finished not one bit contrite.

"My underwear drawer?" she growled, glaring at him.

He smiled sheepishly and pointed to the kitchen. "And the plastic storage containers."

Rose glanced over to where Sherlock was pointing. Her eyes widened in incredulity. "What's wrong with you? Nobody I know acts like this. Nobody."

"Some of your knickers don't seemed to have..."

"They're crotchless. For FUCKING MEN WITHOUT HAVING TO TAKE THEM OFF!"

"Oh," Sherlock said, his eyes widening at the imagery, and he stepped back from the irate woman.

Yes, well, maybe he had taken a few liberties upon breaking into her flat. He had knocked and waited the obligatory five, no, was it seven? seconds before whipping out his lock-picking set. Upon entering he'd been disappointed to find that there was no Rose showering or listening to loud music and unable to hear his knocking.

He had been extremely agitated; he knew that. He madly paced her living room, his mind racing about all possible reasons for the evening's drama. He hadn't wanted to go home after visiting the hospital; he couldn't face the empty flat again. And he needed someone to talk to, to bounce ideas off. And his skull on the mantelpiece never spoke back. And unfortunately Mrs Hudson did.

So he'd paced around Rose's tiny living room, raked his hand through his hair several times, before finally settling on a nice cup of tea. Very English, very soothing.

However, on rummaging through Rose's kitchen cupboards he noticed that the tea cups were far away from the box of tea, and both were nowhere near the kettle. Very inefficient. He then spent an hour rearranging her entire kitchen into a perfectly ordered world. His idea of a perfectly ordered world.

There was the small matter of the Rizla papers he'd found in one of the drawers full of other random crap. Where did they belong? To what purpose did they serve? He knew Rose didn't have a smoking habit, so what did she need to roll? Oh, he thought, all synapses firing and making a possible deduction. Of course. The occasional marijuana smoker probably. He wondered why she hadn't developed a harder drug habit over the years, what with her choice of work. Not seeing an ashtray anywhere, Sherlock took a punt and ventured out onto the balcony. Peering into the telltale ashtray he found there, he rubbed the ash between his fingers and sniffed it slightly. Skunk from Amsterdam, no, Northern Lights, he concluded, smiling smugly. Mixed with Golden Virginia tobacco. Nice choice. It only took him nine seconds to figure out where she may have hidden her weed: in her underwear drawer. He had then become distracted by the chaos contained within that. And, well the rest was history. And possibly hysterics, too.

He had flopped back onto the sofa when Rose shut her bedroom door in order to change into something more comfortable. After she'd opened it again, he calmly informed her that he'd relocated her stash.

Shortly after her terse command to Sherlock to fuck off out of her flat, Rose re-emerged from her bedroom holding her little packet of weed, an additional packet of smoking tobacco and the Rizla papers.

"Lighter?" she asked, clearly still seething.

"I thought you wanted me to leave?" Sherlock asked calmly as he pulled on his jacket.

"Where did you move my lighter?" Rose demanded once more.

"You didn't have one, but there's a box of matches in the cupboard above the stove. I thought you might need them there to light the gas cooktop." He spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. Of course he was disappointed at being ordered to leave, now, when he needed...someone.

Rose gritted her teeth. "They were perfectly fine underneath the sink," she muttered, storming into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat back down on the sofa to put on his shoes and socks. Rose set about rolling herself a joint. She decided to ignore Sherlock until he left her in peace. The silence lasted all of fifteen seconds. Sherlock tutted as he stood up and made his way over to Rose.

"You're making a mess of it," he commented, critically eyeing her efforts to roll the weed, the tobacco, her poor excuse for a roach and the paper into something resembling a cylinder. "You should've added more tobacco."

Rose looked toward the ceiling and breathed out, then she closed her eyes as Sherlock approached. I just need to get through this. Just go, she wished, but only half-heartedly. She could feel her heart quicken in his presence, and she hated herself for that reaction.

Sherlock reached across her hands. He carefully slid the paper she was using to catch the excess spillage toward himself. He tutted again. "And is that your roach?" he asked holding up the little cardboard filter she had more or less bunched up near the end of the Rizla paper.

Rose rolled her eyes but still watched in fascination as Sherlock's deft handiwork produced a perfect spliff. He twisted the end with a flourish and presented her with the finished product.

"Didn't know you were a stoner," she commented wearily, and placed the joint down onto the benchtop in order to clean up the mess. She always like to set everything right first, before allowing herself the pleasure of lighting up and drifting blissfully away.

"Oh, I've tried everything," Sherlock said nonchalantly as he made his way back to the living room. He retrieved his scarf and lazily wound it around his neck while declaring, "Before I settled on cocaine."

Rose was momentarily startled. "Settled on cocaine? Who settles on cocaine?"

"It's a stimulant. I found it clarified my mind and heightened my senses. The perfect antidote to boredom," he replied, raising his eyebrows to punctuate his statement.

"You do coke when you're bored?" Rose asked incredulously. She grabbed her matches and the joint and walked over to the front door to retrieve her coat from the adjacent coat rack.

"Not use. Used. Past tense. The work, my cases, are stimulating enough. But I don't use anymore. I haven't in a long while. Just nicotine. Which reminds me," he said absentmindedly patting his arm. "I'm out of nicotine patches."

Rose peered at him as she pulled on her coat. "But you seem... so... straight. I didn't think you took anything stronger than... tea," she remarked, raising an eyebrow. Then she added facetiously, "And biscuits."

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the armchair and pulled it on as a smile played on his lips. "It was purely a chemical requirement. Nothing to do with antisocial behaviour."

Rose made her way to the sliding door which led out onto the balcony, just off the tiny dining area. "I'm stepping outside to light up. Want to... join me? For a chat that is. I'm not allowed to smoke inside."

Sherlock furrowed his brow but he felt his heart lifting. "I thought you wanted me to leave?"

"Well, I've calmed down a bit," she replied, shrugging a little. "And after this, I'll be completely chilled. You may as well tell me why you felt compelled to rummage through my underwear drawer," she added with a half-smile before sliding the door open and stepping outside.

Outside of her own stress, she could sense Sherlock's underlying tension. He didn't act like a man who had broken into her flat just to get laid. He must feel lonelier in the evenings, she concluded, when the day's activities had ended and he just needed someone to sit and talk to.

And she...liked him. She'd spent all afternoon during her boring job processing invoices internally debating the issue of the payment. Well, why wouldn't he pay her? There was always precedent. Except for their very last encounter before his 'suicide' he had always paid her for sex. The 'free' one was a goodbye present - she'd insinuated as much. So...it was her fault really for not setting him straight. And Rose definitely wanted reasons to not hate him.

Sherlock sighed in relief and followed Rose out onto the balcony. He really hadn't wanted to leave, but for some reason he hated seeing Rose all worked up like that, and thinking, rather disappointedly, that he had been the cause. Still, the presence of the marijuana seemed to indicate that she sometimes had stressful days, and he knew he hadn't always been around to have been the trigger on those previous occasions. Conclusion: not his fault.

Rose had settled into an outdoor chair and had already lit up. Sherlock seated himself on the only other plastic chair available. Rose leant her head back against the chair and directed her gaze skyward.

"So," she began, exhaling the smoke and momentarily closing her eyes. "My underwear."

Sherlock chuckled to himself. "It all began with a cup of tea," he said, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

Rose laughed, trying to imagine a scenario of events that would begin with a cup of tea and ending with Sherlock and his hands in her underwear. Not an odd sequence of events. They'd once had tea in his flat and that little party had ended with Sherlock's hands elsewhere. She felt warmed by the memory, and only half-listened to Sherlock explaining why he thought her kitchen cupboards had been organised to the point of inefficiency.

"Let's go back to the tea," she said in a tone reminiscent of her role playing as a counsellor back at university. Mary Jane's light caress had already begun to lift Rose's stress away. "Tell me why you were having tea in my flat without me being home in the first place?" she asked, before inhaling once more.

"It was quicker coming here after the hospital, rather than going home," Sherlock replied, with a sideways glance at Rose.

As Rose had only just started toking, she had enough processing power to know that Baker Street was infinitely closer to Bart's hospital than Leinster Gardens was. "Quicker?" she asked.

"Well, when I say quicker, I'm thinking in terms of efficiency, and ...er.." Sherlock looked down, picking an imaginery piece of fluff from his coat, "...logistics of speed and," he cleared his throat, "...ergonomics."

Rose took another long drag and asked, while holding her breath, "What?"

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows at her in response and with a tilt of his head he gave her the impression there was some logic in his explanation that she had clearly missed.

Rose eventually exhaled and commented through slitted eyes, "You seem to be starting at the end and working backwards. I can't think like that. Start from the beginning."

Sherlock breathed out deeply, trying to put his own random thoughts in order.

Fish 'n chips. Mary. Skip-code. Motorbike. St James the Less.

He took a sharp intake of breath before offering his explanation in a rapid-fire manner. "John was drugged, abducted and buried underneath a pile of wood which was lit in order for young children to experience what it's like to burn another human being as a punishment for treason."

Rose was silent for a minute while she contemplated Sherlock's words. She blinked a couple of times before toking again. "John was being punished...for treason?" she asked eventually.

Sherlock sighed and turned to Rose with an irritated glare. "You're not normally this stupid."

Rose sat up from her semi-slumped position and retorted, "And funnily enough," she pointed at him with her joint, "you're always this rude." And then she smiled at him and preceded to giggle.

Sherlock stood up and thrust his hands into his coat pockets, frowning at her. He was getting worked up again, and Rose's present mood wasn't helping. "Bonfire night. Guy Fawkes. They were burning an effigy of the scapegoat of the Gunpowder Plot. Someone concealed John in the woodpile beforehand."

Rose drew her legs up onto the chair, hugging her knees. She breathed out slowly, trying to make sense of Sherlock's words, and knew it wasn't just the effects of the marijuana that was causing her to not understand him. Or maybe it was? "I know who Guy Fawkes is. Who doesn't? But that sounds like the middle of the story now." She peered at Sherlock through lidded eyes. "I have no idea why John was drugged, abducted and … um.." She had momentarily forgotten the last thing and frowned while trying to remember. "Oh...put under a bonfire."

"And neither do I, Rose. That's the point. Can I use some of your tobacco?" And without waiting for a reply, Sherlock re-entered the flat. He needed a stimulant if he was going to make any headway with this mystery, and bouncing ideas off Rose with her slowly getting high was clearly not going to work.

Meanwhile Rose had bowed her head onto her knees and held the joint aloft, resting her hand on her head. "Here," she said, in a vague gesture of offering Sherlock a toke and not noticing that he had left.

She closed her eyes and thought about John being buried under a pile of wood. That sounded scary. Really, really scary. Poor John! How long was he there for? All alone. And...scared.

She was in the same position when Sherlock re-emerged onto the balcony with a self-rolled cigarette.

"Matches?" he asked.

Rose stopped being scared on John's behalf when she heard Sherlock's words. "It's already lit," she replied, lifting her head and holding out the joint to Sherlock before realising he was holding his own roll-up. "Don't you want to share? 'Snot very sociable."

"This is just tobacco," he responded in a condescending tone.

"Well I think you need this," Rose insisted, raising an eyebrow. "You seem ...tense," she added, laughing.

Sherlock's face hardened and he made his way across the balcony to retrieve the box of matches from the table on the other side of Rose. "Do you know what THC will do to my brain?" he challenged.

"What's THC?"

Sherlock struck a match and lit the end of his cigarette. He inhaled as he shot Rose a look in disbelief. "It happens to be the main chemical in that joint you're smoking. It's primarily responsible for your high: tetrahydracannabinol. It causes..."

Rose breathed in and closed her eyes. She didn't manage to catch Sherlock's lengthy explanation about cannabinoid receptors and neurotransmitters. He could've been speaking for a minute, or perhaps ten, but when she opened her eyes again he was sitting back in his chair and scowling at her.

He was sitting closer to the railing now so he could rest his legs up on it. "It will affect my energy levels, my concentration and my ability to delve into my Mind Palace," he said, thereby concluding his argument.

One room at a time, he thought, remembering the few occasions he had smoked cannabis at university. Instead of multiple clones of himself accessing several rooms at once, as was his normal state, when high only a single Sherlock was able to navigate the vast maze of rooms that was his Mind Palace. A big mistake.

At first he thought he could harness the powers of his high: he discovered that he could focus on determining the energy of benzene based on the Hückel approximation without being distracted by his annoying roommate strumming random chord progressions. But then an oak tree beckoned from outside his window and with that, a dainty bumble bee. Sherlock found that he was no longer standing in his inorganic chemistry library with the Hückel Theory chapter open, he was suddenly lying in the flower bed of his garden room with a voice in his ear telling him that bumble bees have particularly large and heavy bodies and flight for them can be a real effort. The old biology professor who inhabited this room of his Mind Palace droned on and on about clever queen bumble bees.

When his roommate finally roused him from his reverie he was startled to discover that he was standing by the window, forehead pressed up against the glass and the calculation of the energy of cyclohexatriene still incomplete and abandoned on his desk.

"Your what?" Rose asked, but she was already giggling.

The instant Sherlock said it out loud he regretted it. He sighed and remained reticent, but Rose would have none of that. She stood up in order to drag her chair alongside Sherlock's.

"Your what?" she asked again, more gleefully than before as she sat back down and leaned closer to Sherlock. Her face shone in the glow of both their burning embers. "Mind what?"

"Rose," Sherlock murmured in exasperation, taking a drag on his cigarette and desperately trying to ignore the annoying insect buzzing by his side.

"Did you say palace?" She was actually leaning across his chest now and staring up into his face. A bit hard to ignore.

Sherlock looked down at her expectant face. He'd never seen Rose looking so jubilant and full of life before.

And stoned.

"It's a method of memorising, by storing memories in various locations," Sherlock said in an even voice.

Rose was still leaning across Sherlock's chair, staring up at him. "Why?" she asked, slowly blinking.

"It's a memorisation tool."

Rose snorted and started laughing, draped across Sherlock. She bowed her head onto his arm, as she trembled with laughter.

Sherlock sighed once again, took another drag on his cigarette, then gently eased Rose from his arm.

"Off, Rose, you're touching me."

"Touching you?" she asked, bewildered, and still giggling lightly.

"It's irritating."

"Me touching you?" she asked, her eyes wide in amusement.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Yes. I don't like to be touched so frivolously."

Rose snorted and descended into a fit of giggling again. "But, I've...I've..." She hugged her knees and continued laughing into her lap while Sherlock looked on, unimpressed.

He continued smoking and staring intently at the buildings opposite, his mind trying to return to his unsolved mystery, but the background buzz of Rose still trying to stifle her laughter kept intruding into his thought process.

Rose tried to compose herself long enough to say, "But I've …. sucked you off until you came." Then she dissolved once more, prompting Sherlock to return his legs to the ground and abruptly stand up.

"Right, I'm going inside."

"What?" Rose asked faintly.

"You should too. You're shivering and you don't even realise it," he said sternly.

Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out into the ashtray and waited for Rose while she peered intently at the remainder of her joint. He slid the glass door open, and waited patiently for her to deposit it into the ashtray. She shuddered and wound her arms around herself.

"Fuckitscold," she slurred as she re-entered the flat.

She then shuffled over to the sofa with her coat still on and curled up onto it as Sherlock slid the door shut and drew the drapes across. He shrugged off his coat and left it and his scarf hanging over the back of an armchair. Throwing a glance at Rose's huddled form, he grabbed her laptop from the coffee table. He settled himself down onto the sofa next to her and propped his legs up onto the table. He found that there was no password protection upon firing up the computer, so he immediately commenced surfing the net.

"Are you all right?" he asked after a few minutes.

Rose slowly sat up and rubbed her eyes. "My God," she sighed. "I normally smoke two, but you really packed that one. Fuck's sake," she added, her hands on her cheeks. "I'm perfectly fine." She smiled up at Sherlock through bleary eyes. "You roll them like Billy does. I can't roll for shit."

"Who's Billy?" Sherlock asked, only half-heartedly interested. "Your boyfriend?" His focus remained on the laptop screen. He knew very well that she didn't have a boyfriend.

But that question set off another round of teary-eyed giggling from Rose, so Sherlock ignored her as he navigated her laptop. Rose calmed down eventually. She picked up a nearby cushion and hugged it, finally responding with, "No. He's just a friend."

Sherlock squinted at the screen and commented with a "Mmm."

"A friend of a friend, actually. No," she said, deep in thought. "A brother of a friend. Dear Lord, I can't even remember. I'm only friends with Billy now and not...what's her name?"

"Dunno," Sherlock replied distractedly.

"Valerie...Violet...Veronica! Veronica freakin' Wiggins. That's it. Vee-dub some of the guys called her. I wonder what happened to her?" she mused.

"Murdered?" Sherlock murmured, swiftly typing something into the laptop.

"What?" Rose asked, turning to him in a daze.

"Ignore me. Just thinking out loud." Murder: his default response to a missing person inquiry. He could only live in hope.

Rose pouted as she stared into space. Sherlock typed rapidly beside her. Rose's gaze roamed the room aimlessly, then she eventually stood up and ambled into her kitchen. Noticing that she was still wearing her coat, she set about shedding it, and discarded it onto a dining chair. Tutting, she preceded to open every cupboard in the kitchen in an effort to find her recently relocated cereal box.

"His family practically disowned him years ago," Rose began, her mind wandering back to Billy. Leaving every door open like a mischievous poltergeist, she settled back onto the couch with a box of cornflakes. She commenced munching on them, while staring at the laptop screen. "I still look out for him, not that he needs anyone to do that for him. He's perfectly capable of looking after himself. He supplies me with my weed, and I occasionally feed him," she said through mouthfuls. Sherlock eventually stopped what he was doing to glare at her.

"That's really annoying. Could you eat over there?" he asked, indicating the dining table.

"No, I like watching you," she said continuing to throw handfuls of the crunchy cereal into her mouth. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the screen.

Sherlock sighed and looked toward the heavens. "Community website. I'm trying to find the organisers of this evening's bonfire - see if they remember anyone lurking nearby while they were preparing the woodpile."

Sherlock was left as a one-man investigation team after Mary, to Sherlock's surprise, had insisted they not inform the police. When an onlooker had called for an ambulance at the bonfire, Mary had explained to the medic that John had collapsed from smoke inhalation, as a result of standing too close to the fire, and she had given Sherlock a quick meaningful look at the time. No other bystanders remained interested long enough to contradict her story once the Guy started to burn good and proper. Sherlock's mind was already overloaded with information, least of all trying to decipher the meaning behind Mary's unconventional behaviour.

Still, he was waiting for Molly to send him the results of John's blood test, so they could at least know what drug he had been administered.

"And it doesn't make sense," he continued, speaking more to himself than to Rose. "I've only just made my presence known. I've been alive for 24 hours, and already someone is threatening my … friend." John.

"So this has something to do with you?" Rose asked, rubbing one cheek slowly, then the other.

"Yes. No, I don't know." And I hate not knowing, he thought, clenching his jaw in exasperation. "They were daring me to find him through text messages sent to his … Mary's phone. They specifically mentioned me. I didn't think I'd been back long enough to piss anybody off."

"Who's Mary?"

"John's...thingamy," Sherlock said scowling.

"But...," Rose began, trying really hard to make sense of the issue. "Is John...?"

"He's fine," Sherlock replied, clicking to another screen. "We took him to Bart's. Molly's taken a blood sample to determine what they drugged him with."

"Right," Rose commented. Molly again. "But is he okay?"

"Yes, I just told you," Sherlock replied irately, shooting a glance at Rose. "A couple of scratches, probably from the various branches which were heaped on top of him, but relatively unscathed. The fire hadn't touched him by the time we got him out."

"No, I mean...he'd be pretty shaken up about it. He'll need someone to talk to."

"Oh, I questioned him," Sherlock replied dismissively. "He didn't say much - not to me, anyway," Sherlock added sullenly. "Didn't get a look at the assailant - guessed there were two of them."

Rose shook her head slightly. "I'm talking about the trauma of it. He should talk to a...a... crisis counsellor or something."

"Oh that. Well, he has a therapist," Sherlock answered with distaste.

"That's good."

"You know, for the war thingy."

"What?"

"Because he was a soldier."

Rose stared at Sherlock for a moment. He was still busily navigating between screens. She still couldn't believe he hadn't made a connection between his actions and the effect it would have on those close to him. She reached over and rested her hand on Sherlock's, preventing him from moving the cursor. She said in a careful voice, "He had a friend who committed suicide in front of him. And then the friend showed up alive in a restaurant two years later. May need to talk about those things, too."

Sherlock tutted and moved his hand from underneath Rose's. He muttered, "Dull."

Rose finished her snack and placed the box down onto the coffee table, prompting Sherlock to look up. "So why did you need to get high tonight?" he asked curiously. "Is it a highly stressful job—this talking about sex and pretending to get off over the phone to random strangers?"

Much to Sherlock's annoyance, Rose commenced giggling again, although the intensity of her initial euphoria had reduced considerably.

"What was that you said earlier?" she asked, trembling with mirth. She pointed to her ear and said, "Headset," then she thought for a moment and pointed to herself, "Former prostitute, therefore phone sex worker?"

Sherlock scowled and sighed deeply. She was ridiculing him for some reason, and he didn't like it.

Rose's lips threatened to stretch wide, and she said through slitted eyes, "You forgot 'Psychology graduate'." She pointed to her ear once more. "Headset, psychology graduate..." She held out her hands, waiting for a response from Sherlock. When all she was met with was a cold glare, she finished, "Crisis line volunteer."

Sherlock let her words reverberate through his mind before responding. "Oh," he said, his face falling. He hated being wrong.

"And I didn't know whether any of the five callers I spoke to tonight were going to end the call and then top themselves." Rose grabbed the cushion again. She sat sideways on the sofa with her knees up, facing Sherlock. Hugging the cushion, she continued, "I'm not allowed to offer counselling just yet. I've only been trained, according to the organisation, to refer the callers to a counselling service. I find it hard to let go, hence the pot." She sighed, leaning her side into the back of the sofa. "I'm probably not suitable for the job, but I can fake it like the best of them, until I get home - then I'm a bit of a mess."

There was silence for a moment until Rose reached for the cereal box again.

"So you volunteer at a crisis centre?" Sherlock asked, tearing himself away from the laptop screen once more.

Rose nodded. "Yes, I volunteer, which is why I still need a paying job. Two actually. I can't get an internship anywhere else. I applied everywhere, even the mental institutions like Copper Beeches. So I've decided to be a counsellor when I grow up." She popped a single cornflake into her mouth and said, while crunching, "I'm working the other way round - getting practical experience, if I can remember Counselling 101, and work my way up from there. At the moment I'm only needed around holidays." She paused for a moment, as she slowly blinked, overcome by tiredness. "That's when people get suicidal," she said, yawning. "When they see families and communities celebrating. Christmas and New Year are pretty busy at the centre, and any smaller celebrations like Guy Fawkes Night. Funny, hey?"

Sherlock didn't think it was funny. Suicides only registered as a blip on his radar when there were unusual circumstances, like serial suicides, for example, his own suicide notwithstanding. "So has anyone ever...topped themselves after you've..." Sherlock began. He hesitated, not knowing whether Rose was going to get upset at his question or not.

"After I've...offered them comfort or help?" She raised an eyebrow and a smile grew on her face. "Just you," she said pointedly, then slowly popped another handful of cornflakes into her mouth.

Sherlock looked away from Rose, his face impassive but his insides churning. For some reason he was transported back to those hours sitting in a lab at Barts, bouncing the squash ball back and forth, every scenario of how to cheat death playing out in his head. So many things had to go right, but it was just as likely that one small thing could go wrong and he would actually end up dead. In the middle of his mental calculations he did receive a text from a number he didn't recognise. He had queried it only fleetingly, then never gave it another thought, until now.

Sherlock fished his mobile out of his pocket and swiftly navigated to his messages. Rose continued to crunch beside him, staring unseeing at the laptop screen.

"Was this you?" he asked, showing her a message on his phone.

Thinking about you this morning. I'm here for you if you need.

"Yeah," she replied in surprise after squinting at the screen. "A bit lame, sorry. You still have it?"

"My brother made sure everything on my previous phone was transferred over to my new phone."

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and regarded the woman before him. Her eyes were drawn back to the laptop screen, like a moth to a flame. Sherlock wondered what she had thought about him at the time. The message was sent on the day the headlines screamed he was a fake. She had wanted him to know she supported him. Just like John. John, who had insisted he didn't believe Sherlock had made up his entire world. He had people who had always believed in him, and what had he given them back in return? He had given John the gift of life. But what about Rose?

Sherlock closed the laptop lid, causing Rose to blink slowly as if she were coming out of a trance. He took his feet down off the coffee table, replacing them with the computer. Rose took another mouthful of cereal, but remained transfixed to the spot where the screen used to be.

"Rose," Sherlock said gently.

When she slowly turned her attention to him, he said, "Thank you."

"For what?" she asked sleepily.

"For the message."

Rose gave a tiny shrug. "Doesn't matter. You still jumped."

"I had to." One foot in front of the other. Step up onto the ledge. Goodbye John. "But I still didn't thank you for the sentiment."

Rose ate another handful of cornflakes, so Sherlock gently pried the box from her grasp and placed it on the ground on the other side of the sofa. She didn't protest.

"It means a lot to me," he said in a low voice. "Thank you." Sherlock leant forward and, cupping his hand to one side of her face, he planted a soft kiss on her other cheek. He left his hand there, gently stroking her cheekbone.

Rose swallowed her mouthful and said, "You're so nice, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave her a small smile in response. Her brought his other hand up, cradling her face, and kept his eyes on hers until he lowered his head and pressed their lips together. When they drew apart, Rose kept her eyes closed for a second longer. They fluttered open again as a smile grew on her face.

"I really like you," she whispered.

Sherlock felt his face flush, and he couldn't fathom why. Such vacuous, unnecessary words, he thought, but she had uttered them with conviction and warmth - words he'd not heard anyone else ever say to him without them adding "but". He waited a beat for the "but", however Rose continued to smile at him. Sherlock felt compelled to respond in kind. "I...," he began, tasting each unfamiliar word as it left his mouth. "...like...you, too."

His words had an effect on Rose he didn't anticipate despite his experience and ability to read people. Her face brightened and she seemed wide awake now. Clutching at his shirt, she pulled him down to capture his mouth with hers. Pushing him into the back of the sofa, Rose climbed onto his lap their lips still locked. She left off kissing him long enough to ask breathily, "Do you know what's amazing?" Her eyes were still slitted and glassy, but she raised her eyebrows in a challenge.

Sherlock delved into his Mind Palace, retrieving one of the few references to "amazing" that he had indexed in there. He retrieved, That...was amazing, uttered by John Watson during their first ever cab ride together on their way to Lauriston Gardens in Brixton. That statement was in response to the first set of deductions Sherlock had ever rattled off to John. He sought to enlighten Rose, because, well, she had asked.

"The fact that I knew that John had been in the military and his country of service was either Afghanistan or Iraq based on the fact that he had a military-style haircut and the manner in which he carried himself as he entered the research laboratory. He was familiar enough with Bart's hospital. I garnered that information from his opening remarks to his friend Mike Stamford. And then there was the origin of his phone. A gift from his sibling. I said brother - Harry - who was to know Harry was short for Harriet. An alcoholic too. It was the scratches on the charging outlet. You never see a drunk's phone without those telltale marks. And the engraving - Clara. Clearly a romantic attachment. Girlfriend? No, more significant. Wi-"

He paused as he took in Rose's very confused-looking face.

"Ah," he remarked after a fashion. "You mean, 'Do you know' as in the rhetorical sense."

Rose rearranged her features but still came off looking confused. "I don't know anymore," she said slowly.

Sherlock tutted as Rose leant back. He thought he ought to prompt the poor confused woman in her current state.

"You asked me if I knew what was amazing."

Rose blinked twice. "Oh!" she exclaimed, still thrown by Sherlock's lengthy and obscure explanation. "Do you know what's amazing?" she asked again in a slightly less enthusiastic tone.

Sherlock tilted his head a tad, as if thinking. Narrowing he eyes, he said, tentatively, "No."

Rose's eyes widened in excitement. "Having sex while stoned!"

"Oh," Sherlock responded politely. He wasn't expecting that. "Good."

"Roll us another one!" she said as she climbed off his lap. "And I'll wait in the bedroom."

"No, Rose," Sherlock said, grasping her wrist before she went anywhere. He stood up and held onto her other arm, turning her to face him so that he had her full attention. "Not now. I have a phone call to make first. Remember? The bonfire man? And I'm working on a case, so I can't smoke cannabis."

"Oh," she pouted, looking completely disappointed.

"So, you wait in the bedroom, and I'll be in soon, okay?" he said gently.

Rose narrowed the gap between them, pressing her body up against Sherlock's and winding her arms around his neck when he released his grip.

"Promise?" she asked.

"Promise," he repeated, then he preceded to kiss her slowly, savouring her taste for later. Because there would be a later.

He let her pull away from him and watched as she languidly floated toward her bedroom. He knew she would fall asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. He wouldn't feel like retiring for a long while yet anyway. Perhaps they wouldn't have sex until morning. He didn't fancy fucking Rose while she was high, despite her obvious preference for it.

He had a perpetrator to find, and God help whoever had drugged and abducted his friend. Two years of espionage, solitude and violence had turned Sherlock Holmes into someone not to be fucked with.

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Author's Note: Oops, I forgot to thank the amazing Basser for his perusal of my marijuana references and for providing a most excellent theory about Sherlock's mind under the influence of cannabis. Thanks, mate! And I highly recommend his fics about Sherlock's teenage years and introspection during key scenes throughout the series. Check them out!

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