Chapter 19: Les Miserables
Idiots, Sherlock thought. How could you not spot a couple of burly men half-dragging, half-carrying a body of a man across the green toward the woodpile, prying apart logs, sticks and timber to make a little hidey-hole in which to stow him?
"People chuck all kindsa stuff out at bonfire night, mate," Mr Granger had said defensively. "Old doors, pallets, chairs. Long as nuffin' explodes, I don't give a toss what they bring to contribute. Communi'y spirit 'n all. Coulda bin a roll of old carpet, far as I'm concerned."
"Well you're concern is misplaced," Sherlock hissed before the injured Mr Granger ended the call on him, calling the Consulting Detective a "right toff!" as he did so.
That was the last phone call Sherlock needed to make for the night. He'd spoken to Molly - nothing unusual or telling about the sedative used to incapacitate John. He'd only sent a text to Mary, instead of calling her. John was asleep, she replied, but his awake times were growing longer. He didn't remember any other details according to Mary.
Dead ends, all of them.
Useless.
He meditated on the sofa for a long while, barefooted, in his shirt and trousers, as he had done earlier that evening before Rose had returned home. Sherlock had sent her to bed hours ago, but his brain wasn't anywhere near sleep.
When it was two in the morning, he sat up, swivelled his legs to the ground, and vigorously rubbed his hands through his hair, leaning his elbows onto his knees. Why isn't this making any sense, he thought fiercely, holding his hair by the roots. He closed his eyes and breathed out deeply. Bed, sleep, he tried coaxing himself. You don't have to keep watch tonight. You're not in danger if you nod off. Strangely enough, he always thought the sensible part of his brain always sounded eerily like John.
He forced himself to stand, to walk the short distance to Rose's bedroom, where he stood in the doorway staring at her slumbering form by the light of the bedside lamp she had left on. Clenching his jaw, he wondered again why he was here. He knew why. He needed her - well, someone, anyone.
And I can't have John.
That sinking feeling returned to the pit of his stomach. Two years. Two years he'd been away - clearly too long, for everything had changed. Mycroft had estimated 14 months at the most, but what did he know? His brother had somehow missed the neo-ninjas in Vilnius, and once you factor them in - plus his capture and subsequent torture in Serbia, going to ground in a cottage on the outskirts of the village of Kleszczewo in Poland months earlier, where he learnt how to make sourdough rye bread, and the extended jury service in Hamburg - the British Government's little schedule in Microsoft Excel was always going to be out by months. Mycroft said it was all Sherlock's fault of course.
Sherlock momentarily left the bedroom to turn off all of the lights in the living areas. He shed his shirt and trousers and hung them neatly in Rose's wardrobe. He then made his way over to one side of the bed. Rose was lying in the middle. Clearly she didn't have a side. Well, neither did he when it came down to it. The middle of a double bed was where single people slept. He leant over and pushed on the back of Rose's shoulders and lower back, sliding her to one side. He watched in some amusement as she rolled onto her other side, arms and legs once again finding the middle of the bed as if it were North and she were a needle on a compass.
As there was still room on that side, Sherlock lay down on his back, reached up and turned out the bedside light. He lay in darkness for several minutes, his mind trying to recreate the events of the evening.
John had been abducted between 4pm and 5pm, as that's when he remembered grabbing a cab from work to Baker Street. Sherlock had felt guilty the moment Mary had relayed that detail to him. John was going to visit him. John wanted to see him. John was possibly no longer angry with him.
And then he'd been stashed under a bonfire because of him.
Sherlock's emotions flittered between guilt for being responsible for his friend once again being endangered because some gutless criminal wanted to taunt the detective, and anger towards the village idiots who had observed nothing unusual that evening.
His seemingly pointless mental meanderings were interrupted by Rose sliding over and somehow ending up resting her head on his chest, with one arm flung casually across him. Her hair, all those fine little tentacles, were tickling and torturing his skin. He tried to brush them away, but they were attached to her head for God's sake. He could maybe possibly put up with her dead weight on his chest - but the hair! It had to go. No, actually he couldn't put up with her weight on his chest. It felt awkward, and now he couldn't roll onto his side. What was the point of this? Why did people - couples - think this was a nice way to sleep?
Cuddling.
Touching.
Wispy bits of hair all over the place, brushing and wriggling and burning my skin with their silky poison.
Sherlock gently lifted up Rose's head and arm, and slid sideways out of the bed. He let them drop and she murmured something incoherent. Sherlock walked around to the other side and lay down once more. He felt a slight movement of the compass Rose repositioning herself to the magnetic poles of her bed, so he quickly grabbed a spare pillow and plopped it down next to him. Sure enough, Rose's arm snaked across the barrier and he heard her breathe a contented sigh.
Problem solved.
Sherlock drifted in and out of what he thought was a dreamless sleep until morning. In all, he'd probably slept three and a half hours in total. He wanted to get up and roll another cigarette, but that would mean getting completely dressed in order to smoke out on the balcony in the frigid dawn air, if he respected Rose's tenancy restrictions at all. And all he would have to stare at would be the lifeless buildings across the street - a poor way to herald in the day.
Because the sun rose behind the flat, Sherlock would only be able to see in the dawn if he sat in the bathroom. In complete contrast, lying on a soft mattress on the floor of a stilt house on Inle Lake, among the Intha people of Burma, provided him with the most remarkable sunrise he had ever experienced. During Sherlock's two years away, he came to welcome the dawn. His insomnia, or as he liked to call it, minimum sleep requirement, had him waiting out the hours until the sun rose, so he would have an excuse for being awake.
It was only just after six, and the sunrise of England's early winter was almost an hour away, so Sherlock padded into the bathroom to relieve himself, switching on the living area lights as he went.
Nocturnal temescence, he thought, his brain quietly cataloguing his morning wood. He wasn't aroused, not by any stretch; it was just a physiological reaction to a full bladder.
But his thoughts drifted back to Rose as he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.
Rose.
Your only three friends in the world will die...unless...
Unless I kill myself...
Moriarty had not only neglected to include Molly Hooper in his targeting of Sherlock's friends, but he had had no idea about Rose.
Could he consider Rose a friend though?
Sherlock re-entered the bedroom, leaving the door ajar so that the light from the living area spilled into the room. He searched his mental database for the personal attributes necessary to qualify as a friend.
Someone with whom you have a bond of mutual affection, excluding sexual or familial relations.
Oh, he thought disappointedly, and he regarded Rose's slumbering body with something resembling affection.
But she likes me. She admitted it. Granted, she was high, but marijuana doesn't predispose people to lie.
Thinking about Rose and recalling her body pressed firmly against his mere hours ago added a new vigour to Sherlock's erection. His internal musings about the nature of their relationship became strictly one-sided as he focussed on the activity in which he now desired to engage, in order to wile away the minutes before dawn.
"Rose," he whispered as he lay back down beside her.
She remained in her sleep state, hugging the pillow Sherlock had placed between them earlier. Sherlock lay with his face only a few inches from hers, studying her features intently in the half light.
Relaxed, he concluded. Completely at peace with the world. Do I ever look like that when I finally manage to nod off? Am I ever at peace with the world?
Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock ran his thumb along the smooth skin between Rose's brows, noting that there were no furrowed lines of stress or anxiety. When she didn't stir, he narrowed the gap between them and planted a small kiss in the same area. Rose stirred and murmured, "Sherlock," but she didn't open her eyes or show other signs of being awake. Sherlock was sure there was now a small hint of a smile ghosting her lips. He grinned at her reaction.
You're so nice, Sherlock, she had said to him. I really like you.
She was a nice...whatever she was, he concluded. And he didn't need to go to sleep alone, or wake up with just the sun as a companion when he had her nearby. The money tainted things a bit - having to pay for her company. Would she ever want to be around him if she didn't receive monetary compensation? Sherlock didn't like to venture into that territory. He was content to keep the arrangement as it was, rather than find out she was another person who could be appalled by him.
But anyway - back to waking her up.
He planted small kisses along her jaw, before pressing his lips to hers. Soft and small and sweet.
You can't have that, she had warned him so long ago. My kisses. On the lips. You can't have that.
But he had that now. Just when had she changed her mind? What was different between them? She thought they were saying goodbye the first time they had kissed. It turns out that they were, for a time. She had tried to kiss him again before he left for his stint abroad, but he had splashed cold water on that one. Then again upon his return - that one was far more welcoming.
She doesn't mind giving it out now, but then again, it's not like we can go backwards. Still, thought Sherlock, I shall endeavour to return every one.
He kissed her again, lingering there, his eyes closed, focussing on her taste, the feel of her full lips against his. He felt her responding, tentatively at first, and then her kiss transformed into a smile as her eyes fluttered open. Sherlock drew back in boyish innocence in anticipation of Rose's reaction.
"What are you doing?" she asked sleepily. Her eyes were puffy from sleep, but there was a hint of satisfaction there.
Sherlock frowned and replied, tilting his head slightly, "I'd have thought it was...fairly obvious?"
Rose's grin broadened. "Have you only just come to bed? What time is it?"
"It's morning. I've already slept."
"It can't be," Rose said groggily, her brow furrowing in protest. Sherlock moved away from her as she struggled to sit up. She turned to look around at the bedside table where her mobile phone was charging.
"It's just after six," Sherlock informed her before she could reach back to check her phone.
"Well, that's too early," she said with a sigh, and she flopped back down onto the pillow. Closing her eyes, she added, "Wake me up at seven."
Sherlock frowned. That wasn't his plan. What's he supposed to do now? Nurse an erection for another 45 minutes?
"Are you going to lie back down?" Rose asked through slitted eyes, and she ran her hand enticingly over the mattress next to her.
Sherlock's face brightened, and he lay down on his side next to her. Rose was half awake, and she reached across to caress Sherlock's face. He closed his eyes briefly, silently appreciating her soft touch. It was fine when he was craving to be touched, like now. Such a strong desire was never part of his makeup. Never? His mind searched for any fleeting memories. Nothing. Unless he'd deleted them.
He opened his eyes again and met her gaze. "Are you going to kiss me again?" she asked, looking hopeful.
"Would you like me to?"
"Yes, please."
Sleep had made Rose's mouth soft and warm and desirable, and Sherlock hummed in satisfaction as her tongue slipped in between his lips to seductively tease him. The heat slowly built up between them until the sound of Sherlock's phone buzzing on the side table pierced the silence.
Dammit, he thought. He left off kissing Rose to reach over and not only reject the call, but turn the phone off as well. He had identified the caller as Mycroft, before the screen went black.
Sherlock apologised as Rose slid up to the head of the bed. As she was completely naked, Sherlock's eyes roamed appreciatively over her body.
"See anything you like?" Rose challenged.
Sherlock raised a brow. "Is this your attempt at visual stimulation?"
Rose laughed sweetly at Sherlock's attempt to mock his former virginal self. "How am I doing so far?"
"You're the expert," he said, prowling up to her. "You tell me." And he stretched out along her entire length, pressing himself against her.
If Rose had a response it was swiftly smothered by Sherlock's mouth demanding hers again. Rose molded herself under him and tangled her fingers in his hair. This time there was no careful and tentative bonding of two souls reclaiming a lost passion. The urgency of both their needs saw each of them fighting for dominance over the other. They'd rolled and Rose had the upper hand as she sought to keep Sherlock submissive under her deft touch at the same time as she swiftly retrieved a condom from her bedside drawer.
"Wasted opportunity," she heard Sherlock murmur.
She laughed lightly as she straddled him. "You mean this isn't one for your spreadsheet?" she asked, holding up the packet.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice ragged, and his hands unceasing in their tender caress along Rose's spine.
"Ultra thin, extra lube?"
"It'll do," he rasped, and she was upon him again, her mouth working wonders before she was ready to have him inside her.
Sherlock felt as if he could do as he pleased as Rose shuddered and arched on top of him. They moved together, matching each other, giving and yielding until the primal pleasure that had built up inside was released, battering them both, and blanking Sherlock's mind.
Rose longed to hold Sherlock to her with as much urgency as his need to be rid of her touch. She dutifully dropped her arms from around him and he rolled away and lay panting by her side. Rose looked over to him. His eyes were closed but his breath still came in shallow bursts. Rose lay on her side, studying him.
"Stop it," Sherlock muttered.
"Stop what?"
"Staring at me and thinking about me." Sherlock could almost feel the intensity of her gaze and found it almost as painful as the individual strands of her hair niggling his skin earlier.
"I've just had sex with you," Rose said defensively. "I'm basking in the after glow."
Sherlock breathed out deeply, opened his eyes and fixed Rose with a probing gaze.
"It's irritating." He had wanted all of her only moments ago, but post-orgasm he wanted to be left in solitude.
Rose wanted to ask him if he'd been thinking about her just then, but something told her she'd be disappointed by his response. She was beginning to expect a certain amount in coldness in him. Hyper-sensitivity disorder, she thought. Must start taking notes on this man.
She lay on her back then reached over to grab her phone. Unplugging it from its charger, she checked the time. She didn't actually have to get out of bed until after seven, so theoretically she could go back to sleep for another half an hour.
Sherlock did the same - reaching over to retrieve his phone. He powered it back on, frowning as several message notifications lit up his screen. He tutted and navigated to the first message.
"Mycroft," he muttered in exasperation, and he sat up.
"Your brother?" Rose asked. "Is that who rang before?"
Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rising, he replied, "Yes. Great timing as ever."
He disappeared out of the bedroom to clean himself up in the bathroom. When he returned, Rose had pulled the sheets over herself and was attempting to go back to sleep. Sherlock grabbed his underwear from the floor and slid them on.
"Are you leaving now?" Rose asked.
"Yes," he replied, sliding open her wardrobe door. "Thanks to my meddling brother."
Rose sat up and rubbed at her eyes. She watched Sherlock as he unclipped his trousers from the hanger, and noted his furrowed brow. "Is there something wrong?"
Sherlock was preoccupied with his own thoughts, all of which revolved around ways to assassinate his brother. He slid his trousers on before replying to Rose. "Why would there be something wrong?"
"Because he rang so early."
"It's not early. We're both normally awake at this time. The sun never sets on the British Empire anyway," Sherlock muttered as he zipped up his fly.
"British...?"
"Empire. Government."
"Oh. Is he a civil servant?"
Sherlock smiled wryly at Rose's question. "Mycroft isn't anybody's servant." He pulled on his shirt as he spoke. "Mycroft Holmes is possibly the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. And right now I'm thinking about dumping his fat-arse body in the Thames. He brought me back to London to hunt down a terrorist cell. Whatever he's playing at this morning though..."
"Does he have another case for you?" Rose asked, watching Sherlock's nimble fingers swiftly manage his shirt buttons.
"No, much worse than that, Rose."
Rose gulped, and her heart fell at the thought of Sherlock having to spend time away fulfilling the requests of his dangerous British Government brother as an anti-terrorist agent.
"Has there been a bombing?" she asked tentatively.
Sherlock sighed and raised his eyes to the heavens. "I can only live in hope." He fixed Rose with a weary look. "No, Rose. He's dropping our parents off at my flat this morning. They're in London for a few days and he thought it would be nice if I fed them tea and biscuits." He scowled and tucked his shirt into his trousers, saying sullenly, "I don't know why I can't just leave the food out on the doorstep."
Rose's eyes widened in incredulity. He thinks his parents coming to visit is worse than a terrorist bombing? "Sherlock," she said, scolding him. "Really! Your parents?"
"I know shocking isn't it? Dumping them on me like this, when London's terror alert has been raised to critical. And now I have to listen to them rabbiting on about Humphrey and Barbara's gall bladder woes and so and so's niece's marriage bust-up."
He looked around for his shoes as a smile grew on Rose's face."They sound lovely," she remarked.
Sherlock sat down on the bed in order to put on his shoes and socks. He glanced back at Rose and said darkly, "How can that sound lovely?"
Rose pulled her knees up under the sheet and hugged them. "Because they make an effort to visit you and tell you about people in their lives despite the fact that you're probably rude to them at every encounter. That's why."
Sherlock preceded to sulk because Rose wasn't taking his side. He shot her a look as he stood up once more. "Are you working today?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Yes. I have to go in early. They've got me opening the store because some of the staff wanted the morning off. Guess they made plans to have a big night for Guy Fawkes celebrations last night."
Sherlock busied himself with the buttons on his cuffs. "Are you going to be home tonight?" he asked, not looking at Rose. He decided he was taking life one night at a time, but he needed assurances that he'd have Rose's company at least some of the time. Or all of the time. He didn't know; he'd only been back two nights so far and had already worked out that he didn't like to spend his nights alone. He felt kind of awkward and self-conscious just asking her outright if he could stay over, or even if she'd spend the night at Baker Street again.
"I'd rather you didn't break into my flat again."
Sherlock tutted. "Then how am I supposed to get in?"
Rose raised an eyebrow. "You knock and wait. Then if there's no answer, you go away. Maybe ring and leave a message. Or better yet, wait until I actually invite you over."
"Why would you invite me?" Sherlock asked.
Rose was momentarily stunned by Sherlock's question, but he seemed genuinely perplexed.
"Because, we're...I'm..." Rose was at a loss for words. Why would she invite Sherlock over? To hang out? He didn't seem the hanging out type. He seemed to need a very specific reason.
Rose opened her mouth to tell Sherlock that maybe she enjoyed his company, although perhaps enjoyment was too strong a word. Not as strong as telling him I love him, she thought sadly. His phone rang again before she had a chance to confess her inner desires.
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock snapped into his handset. "Why do they need to see me? … Well can't you send them surveillance footage?"
Rose watched as an irate Sherlock left the bedroom, apparently getting an earful from his older brother. She left the bed, and grabbed at her dressing gown from behind her bedroom door. Wrapping it around herself, she entered the living area and crossed the room to the kitchen. She listened to snatches of Sherlock's conversation as he tried to slide his jacket on while juggling his phone.
"Unless Jean Valjean is an actual person who needs my help, Mycroft, I'm not setting foot anywhere near the theatre. And besides, it was your promise, not mine."
Rose smiled to herself as she retrieved her set of keys from a kitchen drawer. Sherlock at the theatre watching Les Miz? Sounds comical. She manipulated her duplicate key from the ring and walked over to where Sherlock was standing. He dropped his phone hand and rolled his eyes at Rose. She could still hear the faint sounds of Sherlock's brother talking through the speaker. Rose silently mouthed the word, "Key," and popped it into Sherlock's breast pocket. She wasn't sure how he'd react to being given the key to her flat, but he didn't seem to mind.
Before she could step back, Sherlock put his free hand on her back and pulled her in closer.
"Thank you," he murmured in her ear, before kissing her gently on the cheek. Sherlock was determined to remember to thank those around him who continually attempted to help him. No one should be taken for granted, he concluded, least of all Rose.
His brother's voice still spoke from the phone, but Sherlock embraced Rose using both hands now, causing the lecture to become muffled behind her back. Rose's shivered at his touch and lifted her head to meet Sherlock's gaze. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, leaving Rose momentarily dazed by the gesture.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! Are you listening?" came Mycroft's voice from the phone.
Sherlock eased his grip on Rose as she gently pushed against his chest. He fixed her with a tiny smile as he lifted the phone once more to his ear.
"Sorry brother dear. I just had to take a piss. I think I left you in the bathroom."
He winked at Rose as she disappeared into the bathroom herself to take a shower. Rose found Sherlock's behaviour slightly odd. Perhaps he felt like he was defying his brother by snogging with a woman while the older sibling was giving him a lecture. Dear Lord, Rose mused, this man could really be the subject of an entire Psychologist's conference one day.
Rose took a long shower in preparation for the day ahead. She rather preferred opening the store, as it meant she could leave earlier. It was generally quiet first thing in the morning. She half expected Sherlock to stick his head into the bathroom and say goodbye, waving a few hundred pounds at her. But when he didn't, Rose concluded that he'd slipped away, not really observing social conventions of arrival or departure.
After she'd showered, dressed and lathered a piece of bread with black cherry jam as a sort of breakfast on the go, she grabbed at her keys and handbag ready to exit her flat.
It was the pile of notes on the side table next to a single key that caused her to pause and heave a breath in disappointment.
Oh, Sherlock.
Payment for services rendered. Rose closed her eyes in resignation. She had neglected to tell that him he didn't need to pay her anymore.
Fucking stupid cow.
I'm in love with you Sherlock. There's no need to pay me for my company. Yeah, like you're ever going to say that to him.
Rose stared at the notes a moment longer before offloading her bag and breakfast. She searched her drawers for an old bill or letter in a plain envelope, discarded the contents and then placed the money inside. She opened her purse for the previous day's payment and added it to the envelope so she could give the whole lot back to Sherlock.
Eight hundred pounds for two night's work. Rose felt sickened by the remuneration and she wondered why he had returned the key. Perhaps he realised that there was no way he could keep up with this current financial outlay, and that further visits were no longer feasible. With a sinking heart, Rose picked up the key to return it to her keyring. On second glance, she realised it wasn't the key she had given Sherlock at all. It was...
….the key to his flat.
Her sinking heart was unsurprisingly buoyant again.
Sherlock had traded her key for his. It was an odd sense of commitment that left Rose feeling hopeful and giddy. She decided to visit him once she'd finished work that afternoon, give him the money back, and tell him she would be happy to keep seeing him without payment, because she liked him. She'd already revealed that to him when she was stoned; she at least remembered that much, so it shouldn't come as a shock to him.
Feeling completely elated, Rose left for work.
Her morning went painfully slowly, and unfortunately the invoicing system decided to cark it at about 10am, meaning she had to stay until I.T. support arrived to fix it. She wasn't able to leave until 4pm and still had the banking to do. She started to feel quite anxious about seeing Sherlock. At least Sherlock's visiting parents would most likely be gone by the end of the day. She really didn't want to cope with the awkwardness that would surround Sherlock having to introduce her to them. She was just about to enter the Westminster tube station when she spied a familiar face at the bottom of the stairs.
It's that guy! Rose swiftly stepped backwards onto the pavement. Sherlock's not going to believe I spotted him taking the tube again, so I'll have to get photos. Pretending to text, Rose tapped at her phone until Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm himself appeared at the top of the stairs. She put the phone to her ear, and pressed the shutter half a dozen times as he walked past and hoped she'd captured him at least once.
Rose's heart beat furiously as the Minister for Overseas Development continued along the street and out of sight. She breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't caught her in the act. Trawling back through her photo gallery she decided all six photos were reasonable, so she sent the whole batch to Sherlock.
Rose giggled to herself. That was fun! Wow, I wonder what it's like having a job like this all the time. She hoped she'd somehow helped Sherlock and couldn't wait to see him to find out.
It was just after 5pm when Rose finally finished her errand and made it to 221 Baker Street. Nervously she tried the key Sherlock had left for her and was quietly astounded that it actually unlocked the door to the street. She tried tip-toeing up the stairs, but found one of the steps to be especially creaky.
She hoped Sherlock wouldn't be upset about her not wanting his money. Would he think it awkward? Would he suspect she wanted something more out of their 'relationship'? Rose didn't want to dwell on it any longer, but she didn't know what she'd do if she were rejected by Sherlock outright.
Striding into the living room, Rose was taken aback by the presence of a tall well-dressed man standing between the sofa and the coffee table, staring at Sherlock's case montage on the wall above the sofa.
"Oh," she said hesitantly as he turned to face her. "Is … Sherlock ... here?"
The man smiled politely at her, although his eyes told a different story. "Sherlock?" he repeated. "I daresay he's chasing a lead, or his tail. Sometimes it's difficult to distinguish between the two."
Rose frowned, not really knowing if this man was joking and whether she should laugh out of politeness or...
Then realisation hit as she recognised his voice. The brother. Mycroft Holmes. She suddenly desired to put a hundred miles between herself and the man Sherlock described as "the most dangerous man you'll ever meet."
"I...er...well, if you could just tell him Rose called by...or, actually, don't worry. I can just text him. Thanks," she gushed, and made to turn and bolt.
"Rose," Mycroft repeated, and Rose had the distinct impression that he wasn't calling her, but merely repeating her name in an effort to remember it.
"It's fine. I'll just send him a text," she repeated unconvincingly.
Mycroft Holmes meanwhile had retrieved a brown notebook out of his jacket pocket. Casually opening it to a seemingly random page, he recited, "Rosemarie Sulford, aged 27, of 101/22 Leinster Gardens, Bayswater. Psychology major, call centre volunteer, cloak room attendant at the Rendezvous and a clerk at Roches Home Entertainment." He looked up at Rose's startled face. "At least that's the official biography. The unofficial one is far more entertaining."
Rose's mouth had gone dry and she gaped in horror at Sherlock's brother's recitation, and the snide grin that accompanied it.
"My brother has a tendency to surround himself with the most wretched examples of society, Ms Sulford. It gives him a certain..." He grimaced as he slowly stepped toward Rose. "...sense of superiority. Oh, he doesn't really need - now what does he call them - his homeless network, any more than he requires the services of a sex worker."
Blood had drained from Rose's face, yet she remained rooted to the spot and unable to either flee or voice an opinion. Mycroft Holmes' grey eyes bore into her and she was convinced he could see right into her soul.
Mycroft put his notebook back into his jacket and continued to speak in his calm, polite manner as he fished another item from his pocket along with a pen. "You will no longer make contact with Sherlock Holmes," he began, his voice steady and soft as he opened what Rose guessed to be a chequebook. "You will be generously compensated of course," he continued, rapidly scrawling with his pen across the paper. As he tore the cheque from the stub he made eye contact with Rose as he held it out to her. "Don't bother speaking. I'm not interested in your emotional response. Just take the cheque and leave. Any attempt at contacting my brother will result in everyone you have ever known finding out your true profession, and that includes your parents, Liam and Sandra Sulford of Southwell. Scotland Yard will be informed that you've been trying to blackmail their resurrected hero through sexual entrapment. And then there's also the Security Service, and what they could possibly find in your flat. Good day, Ms Sulford."
Rose blinked before forcing a shaky hand to accept Mycroft's cheque and she turned and retreated rapidly down the stairs before her breath had returned to her. Her mind was still abuzz with the words that he had so calmly spoken. She felt confused at the information he had on her and the number of threats he had made against her. The most dangerous man you could ever meet. Who was she to Sherlock? Nothing, really. So why all the fuss?
She practically flew out of the door to the street and stood for a few seconds gulping in the fresh air and feeling rather faint. She willed her legs to get moving again, still intent on putting miles between herself and Sherlock's brother as she entered the Baker Street tube station.
Once she felt relatively safe seated in a carriage bound for God's knows where, she braved a glance at the cheque.
£10,000.
She'd just been paid ten thousand pounds to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.
