Author's Note:
Thank you for all your encouraging reviews, and welcome new readers! Despite Mycroft's unpopular behaviour, I do have a special place reserved in my heart for him. I was merely channelling his "don't say anything, just looked scared and scuttle" persona from HLV. Anyway, I'm sure you all can't wait to see what Sherlock makes of it all...
Chapter 20: I'm Sorry, Brother Dear
Rose hugged her knees, bowing her head and only half listening to the constant droning beside her. She held aloft the joint which was eventually plucked from her hand.
After a brief pause, the droning began again as Billy had another amazing idea. "An entire 'ouse full of those coloured plastic balls. I'm not talking 'bout the inflatable kiddy 'ouses. A real 'ouse. For adults. An' you 'ave ta enter through the chimney 'coz the doors would be all bolted shut."
"Billy," Rose said exasperatedly. She lifted her head and peered through narrow eyes at her friend sitting across from her. "That's the dumbest idea so far."
Billy looked extremely miffed as he handed the joint back to Rose. All of his ideas for how Rose should spend the £10,000 cheque had been shot down. He had told her there were at least one hundred ways she could spend the money. He was currently on idea number five.
"I told you I wanted to burn it," she murmured.
She continued to toke and hug her knees, watching in amusement as Billy's face contorted composing his next idea.
"But there's so many other things to do with it. Charities," he said pointedly. "The Bill Wiggins Rehabilitation Centre for instance."
Rose laughed and passed the joint back to Billy. "Okay, not that anyone would consider what you offer by way of charity is really rehab. More like, Get high on whatever you like, while Billy "The Wigg" Wiggins watches you and your stuff."
"It's a good service," Billy said defensively as he held his latest toke. "Besides, you've already decided you ain't gonna see the bloke, so why not spend the money?"
Rose's face grew dark as she lamented her decision to never see Sherlock Holmes again. "I'm not going to see the bloke because his evil older brother threatened me," she replied. "It's not because he paid me off. I don't want a penny of that bastard's money. It's what he threatened me with."
She waved her hand at Billy, signalling she'd had enough when he offered her the last toke.
Rising from his chair, Billy said, "I don't see no difference." He looked idly around for an ashtray.
"It's outside," Rose responded before he asked. She stood up as well, and busied herself grabbing her things as she explained, "One is a threat, the other is a bribe."
"Oh," commented Billy as he opened the door to the balcony. He hastened outside, dropped the roach into the ashtray before re-entering the room. "So you're heeding the threat," he summarised, "but discarding the bribe."
"Exactly," Rose said, managing a smile. She knew Billy could be pretty sharp when he set his mind to it. Didn't happen very often, but she'd had some quite engaging and lively conversations with him over the years.
"'Right, Rosie?" he asked, patting his pockets.
Rose found this comical as he very rarely carried personal items such as a wallet and keys. A pocket knife and a packet of jelly beans were his usual possessions - the former being a necessary accessory for slicing the latter into thin circles. Billy thought jelly beans were awesome when consumed as tiny discs.
"I've got everything," Rose said sighing. She felt the need to be in the company of others tonight. The empty flat would only serve to remind her once again, that Sherlock Holmes wasn't in her life.
"Oh. Can I borrow a fiver?" Billy asked.
"Sorry, Billy. I don't have any change."
He frowned at Rose and pointed to the envelope on the table. "You've got eight 'undred quid right there on the table."
"It's not mine. I have to return it... I'm going to return it."
She picked up the envelope containing the £800 Sherlock had paid her, but left the cheque where it stood, half folded, and standing upright on the coffee table.
"I'll get some cash out at the machine," she told Billy as they exited her flat.
Sherlock leant his head back and exhaled his cigarette smoke into the air.
"Put that out, and feet off the coffee table," his brother said sternly as he swept into the room. "There is no smoking in British Government offices."
"Oh, bring back the 90s," Sherlock said idly. "And this office barely exists on paper anyway. Who would know? May I go now?" he asked in a petulant tone as he sat up and stubbed out his cigarette into his makeshift ashtray - a small bowl he had stolen earlier from a kitchenette he found at the end of the corridor. "Surely an enormous bomb disguised as a train carriage speaks for itself. The Security Services hardly need me to explain how incredibly dangerous it is to carelessly leave such a weapon underneath the Palace of Westminster."
"Paper trail, Sherlock," Mycroft replied blandly. He quirked an eyebrow as he continued. "And how you arrived at the location of the bomb and your subsequent identification of the Minister for Overseas Development as being the responsible party need to be documented."
"Oh. Dull," Sherlock sighed. "And if you were listening at all to my debriefing session you would've noticed that the chicken came before the egg."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, brother dear, that Lord Moran drew my attention first. He was an enormous rat," Sherlock said with mock enthusiasm."And he had just come out of his hidey hole. I merely located his hole and therefore the bomb."
"Rat, Sherlock? I thought he was a chicken only a moment ago?" came Mycroft's snide response.
Sherlock stood up and rebuttoned his jacket. "Look, all this paperwork is stupidly superfluous. Just get them to make a rubber stamp that reads Sherlock Holmes Solved It, again, and be done with."
"Most amusing, Sherlock. But yes, in answer to your original question, you may go now. We have everything we need from you. There's a car waiting for you downstairs. MI5 is, once again, fully appreciative of your efforts."
"Good," Sherlock said smugly, grabbing at his coat from its position on the arm of the couch draping it over his arm. "I shall forward on my expenses to her Majesty."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Speaking of expenses, Sherlock," he began.
Sherlock looked up in mild interest, while he absentmindedly patted his pockets for lost items.
"I fear your current obsession is threatening to even out do your previous indulgences. I know Her Majesty may have bankrolled your little expedition around Europe, but at the rate of your current expenditure that little nest egg will dwindle away to nothing. Let me just say that I've taken care of that issue for you."
"Taken care of... what obsession?" Sherlock asked, perplexed.
Mycroft set his mouth in a disapproving frown as he tilted his head slightly. "As with the cocaine habit you developed in Montague Street, the first step is to admit you even have a problem."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then pondered dramatically. "Ah... nope. Still haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. And for me, that is rare."
"It's not rare that I outsmart you, Sherlock. No, all I have done is alleviated this particular expense. It's not like you can't-"
"Excuse me, Mister Holmes," a male voice called from the corridor.
Both Holmes men turned toward the intruder, who appeared to be addressing Mycroft.
"It's just that they brought Lord Moran in, sir, and Downing Street want you to … ah... deal with it personally," the man advised him.
Mycroft nodded, which served as both a signal of his understanding and a dismissal of the young man. As he made to follow the staffer into the corridor, he turned back to Sherlock and said, "The matinee session is at 2:30pm tomorrow. Don't be late."
Sherlock scoffed, picking up his mobile from a table and dropping it into his pocket. "I have no intention of seeing Les Mis with our parents, Mycroft. That was your stupid idea. You can suffer alone."
Mycroft fixed his brother with a stern look, one he was used to giving repeatedly over the years. "It was Mummy's idea for us as a family to celebrate your returning to the land of the living."
"Why? By forcing me to die of boredom in a pointless musical theatre production?"
Mycroft appeared immune to Sherlock's churlish comments. "I'll ring you, Sherlock," Mycroft called back as he strode majestically out of the room.
Sherlock made his way to the underground carpark of Thames House. As promised, a vehicle and driver were waiting for him. As he was driven the fifteen or so minutes back to Baker Street, Sherlock pondered Mycroft's words.
Striving to control both the country and my life simultaneously. It's a wonder he doesn't blow his diet more often.
What did he do? Taken care of what expense?
Sherlock tried to determine just what he had blown huge sums of money on, for Mycroft to liken it to his previous substance abuse problem.
Oh.
Obvious.
Rose.
Of course Mycroft had found out about Rose. Why wouldn't he have?
Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket. Should he just phone her? He leant his arm on the side of the car door, tapping the phone thoughtfully to his lips. Of course he would.
When Rose didn't answer, Sherlock hung up on her answering service message. He bid the driver to change destination: to Bayswater then, Leinster Gardens.
When Sherlock arrived, he knocked then counted to six, which felt like an eternity. He strained to listen to any noises coming from within. Right. I've waited the obligatory amount of time before using my own key. Or should I have used my key without knocking? That convention was not made clear.
Noticing the shiny new lock at about he same time Sherlock attempted to enter his key, he had a sinking feeling.
She's changed the locks. She's not answering her phone. Mycroft! What have you done!
Sherlock tutted and huffed a breath in frustration. She's either scared, annoyed or extremely pissed off. Sherlock assumed Mycroft had done his little kidnapping thing again, and whisked Rose away in a government vehicle to an unknown destination and preceded to recite her life story back to her, while offering her large sums of money to spy on Sherlock. Well, perhaps not spy exactly. So he was alleviating Sherlock's expense by paying for Rose on his behalf? That had all kinds of perverse and dysfunctional family connotations.
Thinking these were extraordinary circumstances, Sherlock decided to pick the lock once more, although he really didn't think Rose was home. Entering the flat, Sherlock was disappointed to find that he was correct. He sniffed the air. So, she'd been toking inside the flat. Obviously upset enough to disregard her tenancy agreement.
Sherlock spied the sole object resting on the coffee table and scooped it up. His eyes widened minutely at the five figure sum made out to Rosemarie Sulford from the account of some cryptic-sounding-untraceable-to-Mycroft company.
Bloody Mycroft. For what services is he paying Rose exactly? Have sex with my little brother and report back? That's just so...
Sherlock paused as another memory surfaced.
You forgot Psychology Graduate, Rose had said.
Ah.
So he's hired me a therapist of sorts, someone I was already seeing so I wouldn't be suspicious. He's trying to prevent me having a severe meltdown and ending up wasted on the couch again. So thoughtful of him to be concerned about my mental health.
Sherlock quickly replaced the cheque onto the coffee table, as if the disdain his older brother held for him was going to seep into his pores by osmosis from the cheque itself. It was just like Mycroft to surreptitiously try to keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow as he had done years ago - paying off drug dealers, encouraging the Met, namely one D.I. Lestrade (D.C. Lestrade at the time) to distract him with cases, and bribing the British Museum to not press charges (it was one artefact, just that one time).
Since Sherlock had declined therapy with the MI6-approved therapist upon his return from his missions abroad much to Mycroft's disapproval, he concluded that his older brother had somehow pressed his desires for a therapist onto Rose, traumatising her in the process.
"I don't need someone probing into my head," Sherlock had retorted while he was receiving the full barber treatment upon his return from Serbia.
"Might do you the world of good, Sherlock," Mycroft had remarked in a semi-encouraging tone. "Who knows what all these cloak and dagger activities will play upon your psyche. And just what did you get up to in the Ukraine?" he had muttered, while perusing Sherlock's file. "You have been busy, haven't you?...Quite the busy little bee," and he chuckled, which concluded the end of Mycroft's insistence that Sherlock receive some sort of post-traumatic therapy.
Or so Sherlock thought.
With a weary sigh, he opened the door to the balcony, just making doubly sure that Rose wasn't outside, continuing her personal therapy session in the company of her weed. There was no Rose, but the evidence of her session lay in the ashtray as expected. Sherlock examined it, noting the neat roll of paper around the even neater roach.
So she had company, Sherlock deduced. And not just any company - that guy who rolls joints for her, whose name escapes me.
Sherlock re-entered the flat determined to find Rose and set her straight regarding Mycroft and his little incentives. His mind returned to John, and Mycroft's first meeting with the good doctor.
Did he offer you money to spy on me? … Did you take it? … Pity, we could've split the fee. Think it through next time.
He was going to have a laugh about this with Rose. Of this he was sure.
Returning to Baker Street, Sherlock was surprised to find John Watson about to use his spare key to enter 221.
"John," Sherlock said cautiously as he finished paying the cabbie.
"Ah...Sherlock," John replied nervously. "I...er...brought dinner." And he held up a bag of takeaway food that Sherlock could clearly see had originated from the restaurant around the corner. "Got your favourite," John added in a rushed voice. "Did they keep you at MI5 all this time?"
"Just about," Sherlock replied vaguely.
Sherlock was touched - although he'd never admit it - that his old friend had decided to spend an evening with him, despite the cruel (cruel, it wasn't cruel - funny maybe) trick he'd pulled on the ex-army captain in the train carriage before the Met's Counter Terrorism Command team and Mycroft's Security Service pals had swooped in to take control of the situation.
John was allowed to discreetly leave and return home, while Sherlock was called into the MI5 headquarters for a debriefing session.
Sherlock and John headed upstairs, just like old times, to share dinner. They talked, hesitatingly at first, complete with awkward silences, about Sherlock's time away. Sherlock shared his missions in general terms, highlighting brilliant deductions about discovering the whereabouts of members of Moriarty's network, and deliberating skipping specific details of …
… incidents he didn't want to think about too deeply.
They watched a late news broadcast of a prominent member of Parliament being brought in "to assist police with their enquiries" for a "plot to derail parliamentary proceedings." Both Sherlock and John laughed at the pun, with Sherlock switching off the telly at the announcement that the tube service in Central London would be affected for a few hours that night.
John left at approximately midnight, leaving Sherlock sitting in front of the fire, pondering the evening's proceedings and more importantly his reconciliation with his former flatmate. He debated calling Rose again, opting to compose an innocent text to send her, along the lines of "Thank you for sending the photos. You helped stop a terrorist from blowing up Parliament. That may or may not have been a good thing. I'll see you tomorrow." He paused for a moment, deleted the last part and replaced it with, "Will I see you tomorrow?" He'd leave it up to her, and hoped her reply would be in the positive.
Sherlock had a relatively fitful sleep; his mental state only marginally brighter with the knowledge that he was no longer in John's bad books. He woke agonisingly early again though, with the weak wintery dawn still an hour or so away.
There was no reply from Rose, which was to be expected. He'd sent the text fairly late last night and it was far too early for her to be awake yet. His morning was uneventful. Mrs Hudson bustled about making noises about cooking him breakfast. John phoned to say he was inundated with emails and phone calls from the press asking for an interview with Sherlock since the man himself was ignoring all messages and calls made directly to him. Sherlock dismissed him with a curt reply. His whole downfall, death, and subsequent redemption were all played out in the press. He didn't feel the need to continue living his life in the limelight for merely existing.
"People want to know what it was all for - the fake suicide, the hiding out for two years. You did have a lot of sympathisers and supporters you know," John told him in a second phone call. "And speaking of supporters, ah... Molly and Greg were wondering if we were going to do something... you know... to celebrate your official return?"
When John encountered silence at the end of the phone line, he added, sighing, "Look, Sherlock. Just get this over and done with, eh? Your return. The press. The celebration. Everyone will forget sooner or later and you can go back to being your usual sociable self."
The world's only Consulting Detective finally muttered his acquiescence and let John organise a "drinks thing" at Baker Street that afternoon, followed by an interview with the media on the street outside 221.
"Molly's bringing someone," John advised Sherlock when he'd entered the flat after lunch. "She thought it'd be a good opportunity for us all to meet her new fella."
Sherlock didn't comment. He was staring distractedly at the newspaper as he stood beside the living room table, but he was not reading it. He had finally received a text message from Rose. "You're welcome," it said, and nothing else. What did that even mean? A pang of disappointment sat within him, the explanation of which eluded him for the time being.
Finally John's words filtered into his brain. "A what?" he asked, as John busied himself tidying up the flat.
"Fella," John replied. "Fiancé. Must be serious then," he added with a mischievous grin.
Oh, thought Sherlock, returning his gaze to the newspaper. The man behind the engagement ring. How wonderful. John's getting married; Molly's getting married. We should be expecting a happy announcement from Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee by tea time.
Why can't I bring a … someone, he thought bitterly. He glanced at his phone one more time. Should he send her another message? 'Come round for drinks. We're having a Welcome Back Sherlock thing. I know, you've already welcomed me back by having sex with me and shedding a few tears. But it's high time you met the gang...'
Sherlock halted his thought process before the sentiment he could feel churning inside him threatened to suffocate him. He had spent his third night back in London not in Rose's company. And he missed her. Why was that? Was she his one crutch for being back in London, his own city, and having to face each day without all of the relationships he had grown accustomed to over the years?
For the previous two nights, he had someone to share his thoughts with, and last night, he'd had John back. But it wasn't the same, Sherlock knew that. John had listened, sympathised even, and did, ever so slightly, marvel at Sherlock's brilliance. But it was all tainted, really - the fake suicide, the two years absence. And a couple of times during the evening, John had quickly glanced at his watch. He had somewhere else he needed to be.
Home.
Because 221B Baker Street was no longer the home of one Doctor John H. Watson.
"You 'right, Sherlock?" John asked, breaking into the detective's thoughts. "You've been staring at that same article for ages." John had glanced at him, but continued his self-appointed task of rinsing out champagne glasses for the celebratory bottles of bubbly he and Mary had brought 'round.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's just odd," he quickly lied, turning the page, "reading British news. It's all so..." he fluttered his hand into the air as he spoke, "overly dramatic and alarming."
"Yep," John agreed. "And you were front page for a time."
"Mmm," Sherlock replied disinterestedly.
He folded up the newspaper and left his position by the table to wander over to the window overlooking the street. He drew the curtain aside and peered down.
"The vultures are gathering," he murmured.
"Hmm, what's that?" John asked from the kitchen.
"Only newspaper photographers," Sherlock shot back. "No network crews." He tilted his head slightly and he continued to scan the small crowd on the pavement. "Several bachelors," he murmured as John joined him by the window. "Two married, oh, a couple from rival newspapers are having an affair with each other it seems."
John chuckled as he left Sherlock alone again. "You've still got it then."
"Never lost it, John." He remained by the window for several more minutes, determining the nationalities of all of the photographers and reporters, their shoe sizes and which ones were lactose intolerant. "Ah," he exclaimed eventually. "Lestrade's arrived. Looks like he's split up with his wife permanently this time."
John huffed a laugh. "Well, he has actually. Over a year ago. But why do you say that?"
"He's wearing yesterday's shirt. It's far too creased for one day's activity, and he obviously slept in it."
John cleared a place on the living room table for the champagne glasses. Shortly they were joined by Mrs Hudson and Mary who had been downstairs preparing nibbles. John popped the cork on the champagne and began pouring glasses as Scotland Yard's finest arrived.
Sherlock's previous sombre mood was rapidly waning in the company of familiar faces. As he retold the mystery of the blonde drug smuggler who had infiltrated a sect of Buddhist warrior monks, his mood had picked up enormously, and he chuckled when Lestrade told John that he thought he was going to have to arrest him for being a public menace due to the moustache he had been growing.
As the champagne flowed, Sherlock rose out of his seat between Mary and Mrs Hudson to open another bottle.
"It's almost time," John told him quietly, tilting his head toward the window.
Disrupted by his ringing phone, Sherlock saw that as an opportunity to grab his jacket from the bedroom and insult his brother at the same time.
"I have reserved you a seat, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke in a low voice.
Sherlock drew on his jacket over one arm as he swapped the phone into his other hand. He tutted in mock chastisement. "Making phone calls from within the theatre, Mycroft? That's one of those rule thingies isn't it?"
"Look, I'll swap with you. Take my place now, and I'll attend Uncle Rudy's 70th on our behalf."
"Les Mis is your little thing, Mycroft. You organised it," Sherlock replied smugly. He swapped arms again, pulling on the rest of his jacket.
"Sherlock, please - I beg of you. You can take over at the interval," Mycroft said urgently as the strains of the triumphant Les Miserables song Do You Hear the People Sing swelled around him.
"Oh, I'm sorry, brother dear. But you made a promise," Sherlock said as he approached his full-length mirror. He admired the deep burgundy shirt he hadn't worn in years as he buttoned up his jacket. "Nothing I can do to help you," he added.
"You don't understand the pain of it, the horror!"
Sherlock smiled to himself as he hung up on his panic-stricken brother. He didn't have time for the British Government's resident drama queen. He was celebrating being back with his friends. It was time for more champagne.
John approached Sherlock as he re-entered the kitchen. "Come on," he said encouragingly. "You'll have to go down. They'll want the story."
"In a minute," Sherlock replied, brushing past John.
He had a couple more glasses of champagne to pour if Molly and her significant other were on their way. He may even partake in a glass himself.
The day was turning out to be mildly acceptable. Now if only Rose was there, too.
Rose leant on the counter of the cloakroom, easing her feet out of her heels hidden from both club patrons and staff alike. She was completely exhausted. She'd stayed over at Billy's friend Jessica's house the night before, drank way too much of some cider concoction, then returned home in the early hours of the morning to shower and change. These days she rarely drank to excess, but this time she thought sinking into a hazy oblivion was fully warranted.
She had been rostered on the early shift, opening up the entertainment store again. Throughout the day, Gus, the man she shared duties with, phoned to say he couldn't make it in that afternoon, so she was left with closing the store as well. She made another quick trip home after work to change, pop the cheque into a frypan, burn it, wash the pan, then fry an omelette for dinner. And for good measure, she ceremoniously tipped the ashy remains into the toilet and flushed them away, thinking evil thoughts about Mycroft Holmes the entire time. She hoped there was some kind of universal karma that would unleash its fury onto the older Holmes as a consequence.
She'd hurriedly changed and grabbed a cab to the Rendezvous strip club on Old Street in the pub precinct of Shoreditch, where she had worked as a cloakroom attendant for the past two years. She wouldn't normally indulge in calling a taxi, but she was already running late and catching the tube to East London would make her arrive even later.
The club usually opened from lunchtime onwards, and Rose's shift was to commence at 5pm. She had called ahead to advise them that she wouldn't be there until after six since she would still be closing the entertainment store. It was a good thing she was one of the longer term employees at the club - in this industry, two years in one venue was indeed, a long stint - because 5pm was in the middle of happy hour, and definitely a busy time. If it were anyone else, the club owner, Gary, would've read them the riot act.
Rose was working a double shift and wouldn't finish until midnight. Gary was very fond of Rose. As "an old bird" the dancers often sought her out for advice. Gary knew this was one way to keep his crew happy - have them tell their tales of woe to someone with a level-head. Rose didn't realise that what she was providing during her tea breaks for young, sometimes distraught dancers offloading their troubles onto her constituted as a free counselling service, until one of the younger dancers remarked how therapeutic talking to Rose was. This had given Rose the idea of volunteering at a crisis centre.
The Rendezvous strip club had recently undergone extensive renovations. The 80s décor was long gone, replaced by exposed brick walls and oak floorboards which ran the length of the club. The bar itself was carved especially to fit the length of one entire wall, replacing the wood and laminate panelled combination that was formerly centred within the club.
In her tiny area which served as a cloakroom, a small cupboard really, Rose didn't generally get to see the rest of activities in the club. The cloakroom was stationed off to one side of the entranceway. It was situated within a small lobby area, with double doors that separated it from the main room. Now and again, when it was quiet, she'd stand in the doorway and watch the girls performing their choreography. She found what they did particularly skillful and impressive. There was definitely an art to it, and even though she herself had disrobed a few hundred times in front of men for the purposes of arousing them, she felt like an uncoordinated git compared to these young things. Rose laughed to herself that she'd probably fall off the stage removing her underwear if she had a go.
Rose knew each and every one of them, some more than others, depending on the length and depth of conversations she'd have with them. There were 60 dancers in all and they'd each work three shifts per day, of four hours each. Before each dance, they'd walk around with a jug, collecting the one pound 'payment' from each and every patron. With free entry, it was a requirement to pay every dancer before they took to the stage. A few of the more experienced girls would also conduct private lap dance sessions at a price of ten pounds before 5pm, or 15 pounds afterwards.
Rose did her calculations. Working five or six nights per week, some of these girls were pulling a higher wage than she was earning at the store. But her wage as a cloakroom attendant on an evening shift over weekends wasn't too bad either. There was no way she'd ever consider stripping as a profession. Those days were long behind her. Besides, at 27, she'd definitely be getting past her prime in comparison to the average age of the girls in the club.
Tonight she didn't feel like talking to anyone. She had her own tales of woe - her own 'boyfriend' troubles. And she was quite sure none of the girls there had ever had a boyfriend whose brother had documented their entire history then bribed them £10,000 to stay away from their sibling. Of this, she was in a unique position.
"I really like this joint," Brianna, a relatively new dancer volunteered, interrupting Rose's thoughts. "At the Grange, you have-ta be good at huss-lin' and the stage shows are non-existent."
Rose smiled in sympathy. She couldn't escape it seemed. Brianna had a half hour break and wore a coat over her dressing gown, obviously on her way outside for a smoke.
"The girls are really competitive," Brianna continued, undeterred by Rose's non-response. "There's no cameraderie. I didn't even make the house fee most nights."
It was going to be a long night.
Sherlock's determined stride had him from the kerb, where he had alighted the cab, and across to the staircase that lead up to Rose's flat. He concluded that Rose should have finished work by now, and he was desperately hoping to see her having successfully escaped dinner with his parents.
They had cornered him back at Baker Street in the early evening. Mycroft had them dropped off after the theatre, so they could spend more quality time with their youngest son, before they went out to dinner with Frank and Shirley, whoever they were. Not wanting to attend the performance of Les Miserables also meant that Sherlock had absolutely no interest in the libretto, the costuming, staging and which understudy had replaced which lead. His mother, on the other hand, proceeded to fill him in on all this, and more.
He often wondered what life would have been like as an orphan.
Knocking once more on Rose's door, Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to five. No answer. He hastily retrieved his lock picking kit and surreptitiously made his way inside as he had done the day before. Again, that lead weight sat within at the thought of an absent Rose. There was no fresh marijuana smoke, only the faint stale air of her toking yesterday.
A newer, more acrid smokey haze hung closer to the kitchen however, and on further investigation Sherlock concluded that Rose had been home and burnt herself an omelette.
But where she could be now, he had no idea. He racked his Mind Palace for snatches of conversations he may have been only half listening to. There was something. Something about needing "two jobs actually" because volunteering at the crisis centre brought no remuneration. What two jobs? One was the entertainment store. The other was...?
Did she say?
Sherlock couldn't recall, and he hit upon the idea to delve into her personal papers that he had filed away neatly into one of the kitchen cupboards during his organising frenzy the evening before last. He came across two likely candidates: one was for office duties at a tyre fitting company, although the last payslip from that company was quite old; the other was from the Rendezvous Strip Club in Shoreditch. Now that payslip was dated two weeks ago.
East London then, Sherlock thought ruefully.
As he left her flat and hailed another cab, he tried to analyse what it was that sat uneasily within him at the new knowledge that Rose was working in a strip club. A tasteful strip club. One of the better ones in London, Sherlock thought, but still, that horrible feeling remained. She said she didn't do that any more, and in hindsight, she was probably specifically referring to jumping out of cakes, not stripping in general.
He didn't like it.
He hated the idea.
There. Now he brought the feeling to the forefront of his mind. He had assumed Rose had reserved herself solely for him. That she could be garnering lascivious looks, wolf-whistles and … payment, from other men now sickened him. It hadn't bothered him two years ago when she was actually having sex with others, so why this now?
With a heavy heart he stared out of the taxi window, deeply conflicted for the remainder of the 20 minute journey to Shoreditch.
The crowd had picked up considerably; the hanger space on one side was nearing capacity. By midnight, when Rose's shift ended and the owner's niece usually took over, both sides would be full. She'd just finished hanging the coat of the last gentleman in a party of six - football fans, out on the town after watching a game on the telly of one of the pubs down the road - when the next patron presented himself. And he hadn't even bothered taking off his coat.
Still, his broad smile and slate-coloured eyes which regarded her with warmth and affection at first startled Rose, before she promptly burst into tears.
Author's Note:
Sherlock is way off with some of his deductions in this chapter. This cannot bode well for the future. Y'all didn't think Sherlock would catch Rose in the act of stripping did you? LOL.
But that's the end of S3E01 - The Empty Hearse. How'd I do? Okay?
