Chapter 23 - Maybe Not a Garrotter

Rose was surprised to wake up still in Sherlock's embrace, so she lay there for a while, intermittently dozing and waking, but all the while feeling completely content. Eventually she couldn't stand the wait any longer. She had to interact with him immediately.

Sherlock stirred when Rose turned her head to look up at him.

"Uh, oh," she remarked in a sleepy voice. "I'm going to have to answer hours and hours of survey questions now."

Sherlock chuckled, instantly awake. "And engage in hours and hours of sex with me."

"Hours and hours? Don't flatter yourself, Mr Holmes," Rose teased.

The jibe was lost on Sherlock as he tapped Rose's arm and said, "Time to get up."

Rose moved from Sherlock's chest and instead curled around her pillow as Sherlock left the bed. "You do know it's Sunday, don't you?" she asked.

Sherlock shot back as he left the room, "Arbitrary names for the days of the week don't mean anything to me."

Rose shuffled into the warm spot Sherlock had vacated and closed her eyes once more.

"Unless they're relevant to a case," Sherlock continued a couple of minutes later upon his return from the bathroom as if there had been no pause at all in his remarks.

Rose gave a sleepy hum in response. Sherlock smiled at her crumpled form as he shed his pyjamas in favour of his suit. Of course he didn't notice her head was still on his chest when they'd been sleeping. He had been wearing his t-shirt, so he didn't feel her niggling strands of hair on his bare skin. Something to remember for next time.

Rose didn't realise she'd nodded off again until Sherlock sat on the bed next to her, fully dressed. He leant over her and whispered, "Rose, I'm going. This is your goodbye kiss."

He pressed his lips to the side of her face until Rose stirred, her mind replaying the words Sherlock had just spoken.

"Mmm. What?" she asked groggily, turning her head. "Have you had breakfast on the balcony already?"

Sherlock found himself drawn to Rose's lips, full of blood and warmed from sleep. He had no hesitation in proffering another goodbye kiss.

"You don't taste like tobacco today," she whispered once he'd pulled back.

"No, I've given up smoking. Something about having my clothes reek of five different types of tobacco may have something to do with it. I'll have to invest in a new packet of nicotine patches."

He stood up and grimaced at the stale odour on his coat. "Really must get these dry-cleaned," he said to himself.

He was about to leave when Rose rolled onto her back and asked, "Will you be coming over tonight? I'm working at the club until midnight. The Sunday night trade is always interesting."

"Yes, most probably," Sherlock replied tentatively, not ever really sure what the day could bring.

"Or I could come over to your place afterwards, for something different."

"Why would that be different?"

"Because we'll be at your place,"

Sherlock shrugged non-committedly. "Fine. I'll see you then."

He fished his gloves from his coat pocket as he left the room. Rose closed her eyes once more and fell back into a deep contented sleep.

Sherlock made his way through the living area, pausing by the door, while he drew on his gloves. He glanced at the small table nearest him, which reminded him about previously paying Rose for services rendered. Rose hadn't said anything about him not paying her for his visits this last week. He tried to avoid thinking about his brother and the cheque, but the question still remained: was this confirmation that Rose had accepted Mycroft's payment?


Rose was thankful that Baker Street was a closer destination from Shoreditch than her flat in Bayswater, so she was still able to get a ride from the club. Once again, she felt strange letting herself into 221 from the street entrance, and as she ascended the stairs, she shuddered at the memory of her last visit: her encounter with Sherlock's psychotic older brother. But Sherlock was no longer paying her, and they were still seeing each other with no underworld British Government figure making themselves or their threat known. Sherlock must have had a word with his brother, and now she was no longer being paid for her company. Surely this now constituted a relationship of sorts?

The flat was dark and cold and lifeless when she entered through the living room, lit only by two floor lamps on either side of the couch. Guessing that Sherlock had retired for the night, she silently made her way through the kitchen toward the back of the flat. She was surprised to find that his bedroom door was open, and disappointment rippled through her, when she concluded, just before finding his bed empty, that he wasn't home at all.

Rose was momentarily thrown. Should she leave? Stay? Phone him?

She decided that the last option was probably a bad idea, especially if Sherlock was on a case and silently stalking somebody. She didn't want to be the one to blow his cover by having his phone suddenly ring or vibrate. Although who would go out on a case and not prepare themselves for that eventuality? Rose was largely ignorant about the details of Sherlock's casework. That part of him remained a mystery to her.

She decided to stay and wait, as Sherlock would do at her place. And she thoroughly made herself at home. She had a cup of tea (black, though, as the milk in the fridge smelt off) and had a long, warm bath - a novelty because there was no bathtub in her flat - before sliding between Sherlock's crisp, white sheets completely naked.

There was a faint smell of Sherlock's cologne within the bedding and it wasn't long before Rose gave into her exhausted state, feeling content that Sherlock would join her eventually.

Sometime in the early hours, she felt the bed sink a little, then the smooth, but cold body of a naked Consulting Detective curl around her.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he murmured into her neck. "You feel very warm, like my own personal, living hot water bottle."

"Why am I a surprise?" Rose answered sleepily. "You invited me, remember."

"Yes, that's right. But to find you already prepared for my arrival is a nice surprise."

Rose felt content in Sherlock's firm embrace. "This is odd," she began, rousing herself. "Why are you being so affectionate? This isn't the Sherlock Holmes I know." She turned her head to look back at him. "Have I fallen asleep in the wrong flat?"

Sherlock chuckled into her ear. "You're nice and warm, that's why I'm embracing you. I've just spent five hours at Bart's morgue."

Rose rolled onto her back, and Sherlock moved away a fraction to accommodate her. She furrowed her brow and said, "That... doesn't sound very... good. You weren't cuddling cold corpses were you?"

"Funny, Rose," Sherlock murmured, nibbling Rose's ear until she sighed against him. "I've been helping to remove eyeballs," he continued enthusiastically, while he caressed Rose's arm, before taking in the smooth curves of her breasts. "Wonderful people, the deceased who donate their body parts to science. I was able to bring a pair of eyeballs home for my troubles. Matching set - optic nerves still attached."

Rose had hummed and closed her own eyes in satisfaction before suddenly opening them again and saying, "Sherlock, we really need to work on your pillow talk."


Sherlock had woken Rose gently after a few hours sleep, and told her to just lie back and enjoy herself while he did all the work. Rose had the feeling he was still troubled by their session the other night, and he wanted to get back to something more quiet and sedate and totally controlled by him. She didn't mind at all, though. Talented, clever man.

When they'd finished, he disappeared into his ensuite before coming back and launching into a detailed account of the evening before last - an evening spent playing Poker with the Clarence House Cannibal.

Rose's heart rate had increased and remained elevated when he described how one by one the other players all threw down their hands, eventually leaving only Sherlock and Tonya. The non-playing guests were then obligated to leave, as Tonya had strict rules against people observing.

"We had to up the ante. We both knew we had good hands. We started exchanging life stories as our cards lay face down on the table. I told her I used to frequent a brothel and she removed her shoes and showed me that she has postaxial polydactylism in both her feet. Twelve toes altogether, Rose. Constantly ridiculed about it her entire childhood. Gave her an obsessive view on superfluous body parts and brought about her need to consume them. Luckily I had a straight flush. I would've lost both my kidneys otherwise."

Sherlock had spoken so fast, with Rose reeling at Tonya's confession to needing to consume redundant body parts that she almost missed Sherlock's kidney remark.

"What? But you need at least one kidney."

"You should join in next month," Sherlock continued, ignoring Rose's comment. "I'll teach you. Perhaps you could write a thesis exploring Ms Small's damaged psyche. Fascinating woman."

Sherlock busied himself getting dressed while Rose remained in bed, trying to decide what part of Sherlock's ramblings disturbed her the most: that he was willing to risk his kidneys in a Poker game; that Ms Small really did have a predisposition to cannibalism; or that Sherlock's darkest confession to Tonya had been about his encounters with her in the brothel.

Sherlock was dressed in a russet shirt and his suit trousers and he remarked, as he drew on a beige dressing gown, "Busy day, Rose. The eyeballs beckon. Would you like a cup of tea?"

And with that, he swooped out of the bedroom.

Rose slowly got out of bed, random thoughts all jumbled together. As she refreshed herself in his bathroom, Rose reflected on Sherlock's comment about writing a paper on The Clarence House Cannibal. She realised she loved the study of Psychology, and she started to feel quite down that her life had veered off course. She felt that she really ought to take time out from running from one job to the next, even if it was just a mental exercise, and make concrete plans for her future.

Rose had the afternoon shift at the entertainment store, so there was no need for her to wake so early. Now that she had something else to think about, she decided to go home and do some research for extra courses she could take to get her career back on track.

As she started dressing, Sherlock flew into his room, in a bit of a state.

"Nicotine patches, nicotine patches," he muttered to himself.

"Oh, I saw a packet of those on the table out there," Rose volunteered.

Sherlock stopped, stared at her, then swiftly kissed Rose's cheek. "Thank you, Rose! It's so hard giving up smoking after two years of constantly having cigarettes abroad."

He dashed out again, leaving Rose to finished getting dressed. She thought that Sherlock seemed in good spirits, and she wondered if he had a case to work on.

When she joined Sherlock in the kitchen, she was stunned by the sight she found.

"Ah, Rose," Sherlock said upon seeing her. He immediately shut off the gas to a blowtorch he was holding. "Here's your tea."

Rose had stopped to gape at him. In one hand he held the blowtorch, and in the other, an eyeball delicately clasped between a large pair of tweezers. He was also wearing safety glasses.

"Um," said Rose, perplexed, not having ever witnessed Sherlock performing experiments on body parts before.

"Tea?" Sherlock reiterated, vaguely gesturing to a mug on the table in front of him using the eyeball's optic nerve.

Rose gulped. She had never wanted a cup of tea less in her life.

"I'll.. um... skip tea thanks, Sherlock," she said in a small voice, that almost cracked under the strain. "I have to … ah... go home and get ready for work."

"Oh," Sherlock replied in disappointment, as Rose readjusted her bag. His shoulders drooped slightly but then he seemed to snap out of his temporary sadness when he caught sight of the eyeball again. He straightened up again and said, "Okay. Goodbye hug?"

He held his arms out wide, blowtorch still in one hand, eyeball in the other. Rose's eyes widened at this vision of the detective-genius and said, slowly, "Ah, I don't want to contaminate your experiment there. I'm fine to go without a hug today." She glanced at the eyeball. It was staring back at her. "Okay, bye Sherlock."

The sound of the blowtorch re-igniting was the only response she received as she hurried out the door.

She hastened down the stairs and strode to the front entrance, pausing only when she heard a woman's voice, coming from a room at the very back. The landlady probably, Rose thought. There was a shriek of, "Oh my goodness!" and then a cackle of a laugh that seemed like it was never going to stop.

Rose shook her head. It seemed that 221 Baker Street was something resembling a mad house this morning. She exited onto the street and hastened toward the Baker Street tube entrance. The squeal of the brakes of a cab caused her to glance back along the street. Rose was startled to see John Watson alight from a taxi. Turning back quickly Rose walked faster. She didn't want John to recognise her and assume she'd come from Sherlock's flat.

Close call, she thought. Imagine what John would've thought if he had encountered me on the stairs, sneaking out of Sherlock's this morning.

Once on the tube, Rose's thoughts turned from Sherlock and John to her stalled career. She pushed aside the dark thoughts that always tried to seep through. These kinds of thoughts usually made her dismiss thinking about her career, and just live from day to day. This time, she shoved them aside. This time, she was taking control.

To assist her mind with taking control, Rose drew out her phone and started researching Forensic Psychology. Living around and being consumed by Sherlock gave her a small insight into what it would be like in this field, one she hadn't considered previously. Of course she would have to return to university studies - a Masters in Forensic Psychology followed by two years supervised practice. This she could do... sort of.

Rose sighed. Studying again. That would mean part-time study because she would still need to work, so the one year full-time course would turn into two years part-time. Money would become a problem again. Determined not to sell her body this time, and therefore her soul, Rose leant her head back against the wall of the carriage and made plans. While she switched trains, a half-formed idea had entered her mind, one that would kill two birds with one stone.

Reconcile with my parents, thus insuring financial backing should I need it.

Christmas was less than two months away, a time during which Rose's mother was particularly emotional and sentimental. Naturally she would love to have her wayward daughter return to her in time for Christmas. So Rose had just over a month to start making contact - with her mother first. Her father would begrudgingly allow Rose back into their house during the weeks, then days leading up to Christmas, Rose was sure of it.

Besides, she thought, it would be best for my own mental health to have the emotional support of family.

The throwaway remark Sherlock had made had given Rose a new vitality she hadn't felt for years. Sherlock was alive, she was going to have a respectful career once more, and she would feel the security of family again.

Forensic psychology. Sherlock you genius. Perhaps I will write a paper about The Clarence House Cannibal after all.


Sherlock frantically paced around Rose's small living area, raking one hand through his hair. His chest felt constricted and the air in her flat smothered him with its stillness. The sound of keys rattling in the door gave him momentary relief from his impending meltdown.

"Rose!" he exclaimed, as she entered her flat.

Rose was startled by Sherlock's ashen face, not by the fact that he was already in her residence - that was a given these days, and practically a welcome sight as far as she was concerned. That he was standing in her living area still wearing his long coat, and not lolling about idly on her sofa, bare-footed and jacketless was worrisome.

"Sherlock what's wrong?" she immediately asked, dropping her bag and coat onto the nearest armchair.

Sherlock dropped himself dramatically into the chair next to the sofa and groaned, holding his head in his hands. "The worst possible thing has happened to me," he said without looking up, his voice strained and cracking toward the end.

Blood drained from Rose's face. Worse than a pretend suicide? She quickly sat down on her coffee table in front of Sherlock, and leant forward, placing a caring hand on his knee.

"Sherlock. Tell me."

Sherlock slowly raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and fearful. Rose swallowed hard.

"It's John," Sherlock replied, his voice barely audible.

Rose was thrown. She'd just seen John that morning, looking happy and healthy as he strode toward Sherlock's flat.

"What happened?" she asked in a small voice, thinking the doctor had been kidnapped once more, but this time the bonfire succeeded in doing away with Sherlock's friend.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before looking into Rose's eyes. "He's asked me to... to..." Sherlock sat up straighter, in an effort to compose himself. He looked down at the floor, and then swallowed. His voice was stronger as he tried again. "John's asked me to be his … best man. For his wedding."

Rose's eyes widened, and relief washed over her. "Best man?" she repeated, trying desperately to remain as straight-faced as Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded slowly and almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth curving ever downward in despair. Then panic seized the Consulting Detective once more and he jolted out of the chair, making a beeline for the kitchen.

"Clearly the man is deranged," he began, speaking at a manic pace as he started to roll a cigarette with the tobacco that had been left out on the kitchen bench. "I'm the most arrogant arsehole anyone could ever meet and he's chosen me as his best man. What does that say about his wife-to-be, hmm?"

Rose stood up, her head spinning with Sherlock's see-sawing emotions. And evidently he'd taken up smoking again, she observed.

"Well, you're his best friend, clearly," Rose said, keeping her voice soft and full of encouragement as she made her way over to Sherlock. "You've been friends for years. And you disappeared for two of them to save his life. And you saved him again just the other day. Not that saving someone's life qualifies you to be a best friend... I'm just saying..."

Rose trailed off as Sherlock fixed her with a penetrating look. "I let him grieve unnecessarily for two years. He physically assaulted me the day I returned and called me a cock and then threatened to kill me the day after I pulled him from the bonfire. Granted I put his life in danger with a bomb disguised as a train carriage, but as you can see, Rose, I'm hardly best friend material, let alone best man."

"Well, John counts you as his best friend, after everything that's happened," Rose added, as Sherlock brushed past her on his way out to the balcony through the dining room door.

Rose grabbed her coat and followed him outside. He had already lit up and sat in his now familiar pose with his legs resting on the railing of her balcony.

Rose reiterated to Sherlock his friendship status with John, while the great Consulting Detective only sighed, tutted and rolled his eyes in turn.

"You just need some time to get used to the idea," Rose offered at last.

Sherlock slowly turned to her and forcefully exhaled his cigarette smoke before saying, "That's all I've been doing since this morning when John first came around." He pointed to his temple and said, "Do you think at the rate my superior mind can process thoughts that a few hours worth of getting used to the idea doesn't equate to years and years of philosophical musings for the simple-minded?"

Rose bit her bottom lip in an effort to refrain from laughing. "When's the wedding?" she asked, in an effort to shift the focus of the conversation slightly.

"May. A spring wedding."

"Well, that's... still six months away." Rose stood up and gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. "You'll be practically revelling in the idea by then. I'm going inside to make myself an omelette. Do you want anything?"

"I've lost my appetite," Sherlock muttered darkly.


When Sherlock entered the bedroom with Rose's laptop tucked under his arm, Rose felt deflated.

"I thought we weren't doing that anymore," she stated, a little too harshly.

"I gave you the weekend off. As it's Monday, I thought we could get back to business."

Rose bit her tongue. The man had been feeling down all evening. He had even silently watched telly while Rose sifted through university websites on her laptop before she finally decided on the London Metropolitan University. Nice and close. She concluded that Sherlock wasn't even engaged in watching Regency Road. His mind was obviously elsewhere.

She decided to go along with his questionnaire tonight since it seemed to make him happy. She may even carefully consider her answers this time.

Sherlock settled into bed, having deposited the computer onto the bedside table. He pulled open the drawer and then asked Rose, "Do you want to choose, or should I?"

"It's your turn, I think," she replied pleasantly.

Sherlock rummaged inside the drawer, making rather a big deal out of shuffling the condom packets about. Rose found it hard to keep a straight face, so she sat up and pretended she needed to fluff out her pillow.

After Sherlock had placed the randomly selected condom onto the bedside table, he turned onto his side, facing Rose. This was one of Rose's favourite moments: when Sherlock Holmes became cuddly Sherlock. Even for just a few minutes.

He kissed her gently at first, and an ache grew inside her until she had to exercise her own self-restraint, willing to make every sensation last longer. He could be so tender when he wanted to be, giving him a boyish sweetness that Rose adored. He drew her in closer, and she could feel his own burgeoning arousal hard against her. His lips left hers and drifted along her neck, raking over her throat, rippling a new hunger through her. Rose's breath shuddered as Sherlock moved lower. His hands ran over her until she trembled and sighed against his touch, impatient for more.

Then suddenly he wasn't there anymore.

He was off the bed and over by the wardrobe while Rose's eyes fluttered open. She felt dazed and definitely not sated.

"Sherlock?"

"Rose, I don't have time for this," Sherlock replied, pulling his shirt from its hanger and hastily dressing.

"What's wrong?" Rose asked, sitting up in a world of confusion.

Sherlock fixed Rose with look that indicated his astonishment at her ignorance. With gravity weighing down his voice, he informed her, "I have a wedding to plan."

.


Author's Note:

Sorry, it's a bit shorter than usual, but like Sherlock, I have a wedding to plan. No, not my own! The wedding planning chapters, I mean! I want to get them just right, so I thought I'd give you this little snippet as a small token of appreciation for the readers who waited, while I feverishly continue to plan the next few. I will be taking certain liberties with the ordering of the cases as presented in flashbacks during the wedding speech. I don't want to use John's blog as a reference because it got the wedding date wrong, therefore I have no faith in it. Thanks ever so much for your enduring patience! I'll try not to disappoint...