Chapter 24 - You Cater to the Whims of the Pathetic
Rose was out of the bed in an instant.
"Sherlock Holmes, you get back into that bed right now!"
Sherlock paused before he had even fastened any of his buttons. The look on Rose's face had scared him into not moving a solitary muscle. She stepped closer to him and seized him by his shirt.
"I've taught you everything you know about how to please a woman—"
"Not every—" Sherlock began in protest.
"Shut it!" Rose commanded, her eyes flashing a serious warning. "And this is no way to treat a woman. You don't just stop mid-foreplay with no intention of returning. You just don't!"
Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a biting retort, but he had nothing. He knew he was in the wrong and he had made Rose very upset with him.
And besides, he still had a full erection. Who was he kidding?
Rose was looking forward to spending an evening with Sherlock in Baker Street. Although she knew he would be preoccupied with whatever planning he felt he had to do for the wedding that was not his own, she was still pleased he'd thought to invite her around. He did end up staying the night at her place, and he finished having sex with her to her satisfaction. He appeared less inclined to dash off home after his own climax, and he had held her for what seemed like a very precise three minutes before demanding answers to his damnable questionnaire. In all, quite a routine night for them both.
He left early the next morning, before Rose had finished getting ready for work, but not without giving her his obligatory goodbye kiss.
After an interminable day spent in the back office of the entertainment store, Rose was looking forward to a long soak in Sherlock's bathtub. But first she had to return home to pack a few things so she could leave for work directly from Baker Street the next morning. Her head was filled with a list of items to pick up as she walked toward the tube station, only half-registering a female voice calling out as she passed by a bus stop.
It took a moment before Rose realised that it was she who was being called. She looked around, and a young woman's face lit up in response.
"Shell! I thought it was ya!" she said, excitedly hastening over to Rose.
A small part of Rose died inside when she recognised an ex co-worker from her days in the Lyceum Street brothel. Her name was Chantal, and that probably wasn't her real name any more than Rose's name was Shelley.
Rose did her best to return the young woman's smile, before she was enveloped in a tight embrace, which was followed by a kiss on the cheek.
"Watchya been upta? Ya look..." The young prostitute's face took on a puzzled expression as she eyed Rose's conservative attire, the latter's ensemble in stark contrast to the plunging neckline and tight bright red trousers several sizes too small that Chantal herself wore underneath an overcoat.
"Like an officer worker?" Rose finished, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah!" Chantal agreed, laughing with the confidence of someone who'd just shared a private joke.
"I do work in an office," Rose responded with a straight face.
Chantal's mouth formed a small "o", before a pained expression replaced it.
"What happened to ya?" she asked, looking horrified that somehow Rose had fallen on hard times.
Rose shrugged, while saying, "I... had to leave London for a while, and I needed to finish my studies."
She'd bent the truth just a little, but why should she tell her life story to someone who didn't even know her real name?
"Oh, Shells," Chantal lamented, scanning Rose from head to toe, and then her face immediately brightened as she remembered her own good fortune. "You'll never guess what I'm doin' now!"
Rose didn't really need this conversation, nor this encounter. One thing about moving on and out of the sex industry was thinking you'd somehow survived something. She was able to interrupt Chantal long enough to suggest they go have coffee. Moving the conversation from the busy street seemed like the best option, and Rose couldn't bring herself to just walk away from her former co-worker. She knew from working in the industry that some of the girls hardly ever got spoken to like a human being, and she didn't want to be the one to dismiss any of them.
Rose slowly stirred her coffee while Chantal eagerly pointed out the features of her new website from an iPad. Her long manicured fingers had no trouble navigating the touch screen, as she said, "And some of them let me watch them having a wank while they're watching me. Webcaming is so lucrative. You get tips whenever you do stuff they type in. You should try it!"
Rose smiled to herself at the idea of getting Sherlock to watch her in Leinster Gardens while he masturbated from the privacy of his bedroom in Baker Street. Somehow she couldn't see him being too keen on the idea of Rose becoming a web cam girl. Besides, they'd never had that kind of relationship.
Chantal interrupted Rose's quiet musings when she navigated to a new page that displayed her 'tour dates', and she had a sudden thought.
"Shell! What are you doing this weekend?"
Rose wanted to say she was busy all weekend, spending time with her boyfriend or something, but her hesitancy only made Chantal sit up and clap her hands in delight.
"You can join me on the London leg of my tour!"
Rose knew what kind of tour Chantal was referring to. With the spread of the red light district onto the net it brought new and interesting opportunities for workers in the industry. Cam girls who liked to think they weren't prostitutes were popping up all over the net. But for the more adventurous, you could go as far as booking hotels around the U.K. and advertising your dates on a web page so punters could book you for an old-fashioned one-on-one romp in their local area.
"I'm always nervous for m'safety doing this by meself. Last year, I had a friend come with me, but she was crap and kept worrying over us getting done for running a brothel since there were two of us. I know you're good, and we could share expenses. How about it, Shell?"
Rose's stomach roiled at the prospect, but she was able to maintain her composure. She told Chantal that she had to work all weekend at the strip club, and didn't correct Chantal when she commented that she'd heard somewhere that Shelley was now a stripper.
Rose asked how Mark's and Cynthia's brothel was, and Chantal informed her that the couple had separated. Cynthia was now running things with less girls and had moved out of the house in Lyceum Street. She'd taken to booking serviced apartments so they could operate more of a mobile brothel to stay ahead of the police. The process of taking in clients was more streamlined and the premises were luxurious compared to the residence in North London.
With the coffee all consumed and the conversation moving onto Chantal basically showing Rose her photo gallery, Rose decided it was time to leave. She was also feeling self-conscious that some of the other customers could see Chantal's iPad screen, and a lot of the photos on it were quite explicit. Twice she encouraged the young prostitute to lay the iPad flat on the table, but after a few minutes, Chantal would forget again and lift it up in her enthusiasm to show Rose other photos of herself posing in new positions wearing little or no lingerie.
Rose looked around the café uneasily. The threat from Sherlock's brother was constantly in the back of her mind, and she didn't know exactly what kind of influence Sherlock had over his older sibling and if he had managed to dissuade the government official from exposing Rose's past career to all and sundry. With that in mind, she felt it wouldn't do to be sitting in a coffee shop, poring over a prostitute's website.
She made excuses to Chantal about needing to get home and finish an assignment. She felt extremely guilty that Chantal was disappointed that Rose had to go. Rose reluctantly accepted the young woman's business card and agreed to give her a call should she change her mind about accompanying her on the upcoming weekend sex tour.
Once Rose was home, she set about packing a bag to take to Baker Street. While checking her handbag for her lip gloss, she found that Chantal's business card had fallen inside the open envelope that contained the £800 she was intending to return to Sherlock. She quickly pulled the card out and slipped it behind the credit card in her purse, but not before noting that Chantal's occupation was listed as Model/Dancer.
A sickening horror rippled through Rose, as her mind connected Chantal's true profession with the reason behind Sherlock paying her £400 on two consecutive occasions over a week ago. She could call herself his friend or companion, but like Chantal, if you get paid for having sex with someone, you're a fucking prostitute, regardless of what you put on your business card. Sherlock had paid her and she had kept the money. She was still a whore.
Rose couldn't face going to his flat just yet. She felt ill, and images of Chantal's photo gallery kept flashing through her mind along with her own memories of performing degrading acts for money - not with Sherlock. Definitely not with Sherlock. He had been the perfect gentleman. She had always felt in control at the brothel with all her clients, and at Baker Street with Sherlock, but her other single client - the one she'd taken on after discovering through Sherlock that the escort business was far more lucrative - had paid generously for a whole lot more.
And she had forced herself to submit to his humiliating demands again upon returning to London after hearing of Sherlock's 'suicide'. The sick fuck paid well, that was her motivation, and she desperately needed the money at the time, but the whole ordeal left her feeling disgusted with herself. Why had meeting up with Chantal put the image of that repulsive man in her head again? She'd not thought about him for two years.
Rose had an urgent desire to cleanse herself and a long bath at Sherlock's would've been welcome, but she couldn't go there just yet. She didn't want to be around someone as wonderful as Sherlock Holmes while her thoughts were clouded with the degrading acts she had performed at the bidding of that horrid man.
Rose stripped and entered her bathroom, taking a longer than usual amount of time in the shower, with the water as hot as she could bear it. Eventually, the water threatened to run cold and it was only then that she decided she was as clean as she was going to be. She had shed one or two tears in the shower as well, feeling completely helpless and alone, before shutting out the memory and the emotions that accompanied it with great effort.
Donning her dressing gown and fixing a salad for dinner, Rose tried to focus on her stalled career in Psychology. She sat down at her computer several times but felt too restless to concentrate. She was far too agitated to get dressed and leave for Baker Street. She wondered if she should have a quick toke to calm herself down before seeing Sherlock. She had second thoughts, imagining that the Consulting Detective would disapprove of her visiting his place while stoned.
Rose sighed at her own indecision then jumped out of her chair when she heard the sound of her front door being unlocked.
"John has no idea," Sherlock was saying as he entered. He appeared flustered and barely looked at Rose as he shed his coat and hung it up by the door.
Rose rushed at him, and clung to him as he automatically hugged her. But he was still too preoccupied in his own thoughts to notice anything out of the ordinary.
"He said I'm not to do anything at all about planning the wedding until after Christmas. Not even allowed to mention it. He asks me to be his best man then puts a wedding preparation ban in place. I think he's just overwhelmed. I presented him with a fairly comprehensive checklist of things that needed to be done... oh, hello, Rose."
Sherlock paused to kiss Rose on her cheek, and then took off his jacket once Rose had released him.
"Some places are booked out a year in advance. I don't think he's taken that into consideration."
Sherlock paced around the living area while Rose busied herself cleaning up her dinner dishes.
"There's the flowers to order, and catering, although that would depend on the venue. Mary's no better. It'll all be fine, Sherlock," he added in a mock female voice. "And then there's the cake..."
Rose let Sherlock continue his one-sided conversation. She nodded now and then and hummed in agreement whenever he threw a glance in her direction.
"… so I couldn't stay home waiting for you; what was taking you so long anyway? I need a shower."
Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom without waiting for a response from Rose. She didn't mind anyway; she was glad of the distraction that Sherlock's presence brought.
She was once again seated at her computer when he came dashing out of the bathroom with a towel clinging to his hips.
"Your hot water didn't last very long. Don't like that soap; makes my skin feel itchy."
And he disappeared into the bedroom carrying his shirt and trousers. She could hear him opening and closing wardrobe doors as he hung up his clothes. He eventually emerged wearing a blue silk dressing gown over his pyjamas.
"You've brought your dressing gown here as well," Rose observed.
Sherlock glanced down at it as if seeing it for the first time. He gave a nod in satisfaction, as he continued over to Rose's sofa.
"There's some salad left in the fridge if you're hungry," Rose said as Sherlock flopped onto the sofa.
"Don't eat when I'm working," Sherlock intoned, picking up the remote control and pointing it at Rose's telly.
Rose regarded Sherlock's reclined posture with some amusement. "Are you working?"
Sherlock shot Rose a look in irritation. "I'm planning John's wedding. Haven't you been listening?"
Rose's eyebrows shot up in disbelief as Sherlock turned his attention to the small screen. Clicking the remote to surf through the channels, he muttered, "Rubbish, rubbish, crap, crap, oh what's this? Rubbish."
Rose resumed her studying of the prerequisites required to enrol in Forensic Psychology while Sherlock silently - for the most part - watched television. His tutts and comments on the programmes moved to the background as Rose's thoughts shifted once more to her past.
She hadn't noticed how much time had elapsed before Sherlock was asking, "What's wrong?"
Rose looked over at Sherlock in surprise. She hadn't noticed that he'd muted the sound of the ads on the telly and was looking at her with his brow furrowed and his mouth downturned. He was still lying comfortably on her sofa, one arm hanging limply off the couch as he clutched the remote control, and his other arm positioned casually behind his head.
He continued speaking as if to enlighten Rose as to why he was concerned. "I was telling you that I've already worked out the mystery. This U.S. Marshal is obviously the mental patient and is having fantasies and delusions about solving the case of the missing girl. I solved it in the first ten minutes."
Rose was immediately roused from her reverie and glanced at the TV screen to see that the movie had resumed.
"Oh, I've seen this one. You're right. The whole thing's a set up to get him to confront his -"
"Shh, Rose!" Sherlock interrupted her, looking aghast. "You're ruining it for me!" And he unmuted the telly and continued watching the movie with an annoyed expression marring his features, his concern for Rose's reticence forgotten.
Rose stood up and made her way over to Sherlock. Watching a movie with him may be the perfect antidote to staring into space feeling sorry for herself, she thought.
"Can you make room for me?" she asked tentatively, still unsure if Sherlock could be the cuddling type on occasions other than just before and just after sex.
Sherlock tutted and tried to look around Rose in order to keep his eyes on the telly, but at the same time he shuffled to the edge of the sofa and moved his arm out from underneath his head indicating that she lie on that side of him. Rose lay down and cuddled in close to Sherlock, resting her head on his chest as he held her to him. She felt quite content and thought she would fall asleep in minutes if she'd just let go of her stressful thoughts. She eventually closed her eyes when Sherlock distractedly brushed her hair away from her face, and continued to run his fingers through it.
She sighed sleepily but was then jolted from her half-slumber by Sherlock tutting and throwing the remote down onto the coffee table.
"It's all so obvious now. Every gesture, every intention. Completely ruined it for me."
Rose chuckled and turned her head to look up at the pouting detective. His fingers were still threaded through her hair as he returned her gaze.
"Do you often ruin movies for yourself?" she asked.
"I don't usually watch movies. Pointless. John made me watch one once. He immediately regretted it, and never insisted on it again."
Rose laughed lightly then shifted upwards to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. When she pulled away again, she found that he was carefully studying her through narrow eyes.
"You're in a better mood," he commented. "So who did you run into today?"
"What makes you think I ran into somebody today?"
Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath before gesturing to the front door. He spoke quickly, almost in a flat monotone.
"When I walked in this evening you hastily wiped away a solitary tear, then flung yourself at me to receive my hug. You held your arms around me just that little bit tighter and a tad longer than usual, while you recomposed yourself. Then you busied yourself around your flat as if I'd interrupted your chores. You were being uncharacteristically industrious, washing the dishes, putting clothes in the dryer - you rarely use the dryer, too expensive to run - when clearly you'd been sitting at the dining table staring vacantly at the same screen for hours.
"The timestamp on that webpage hasn't changed, which indicates poor programming on the part of the web developer and the fact that you haven't navigated away from it. Two - no - three cups of tea, all unfinished," he said, indicating the used teabags resting on the countertop in the kitchen, "so you kept making yourself new ones where they remained untouched and became cold. You don't usually drink that much tea. So your thoughts were elsewhere.
"Spur of the moment affection towards me, and trying to investigate new options for your future in the Psychology industry indicated by that website still on your screen, both lead me to conclude that you were reflecting on your time working in the brothel and therefore you encountered someone today that reminded you that you were once a prostitute. But you regret throwing away the last two years of your life. At first you blamed me and my fake suicide, but then you felt guilty about what I must have went through, hence the prolonged hug when I walked in. Am I right?"
Rose realised she'd been holding her breath the entire time Sherlock was speaking and she quickly inhaled, before breathing out unsteadily. Her eyes prickled with tears.
"Yes," she said finally.
Sherlock remained curiously silent; he didn't sneer or look jubilant. He continued to gaze at Rose allowing her to compose her thoughts.
"I bumped into Chantal, another worker from the brothel. She's lovely actually, and doing really well for herself, I guess."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, demonstrating only a minor interest, before the flicker of the telly caught his eye once more.
"Shh, Rose. It's back on."
He grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and returned the volume to its normal level. Rose sighed and lay her head back down onto Sherlock's chest. Sherlock had untangled his fingers from Rose's hair but he began caressing her arm with his thumb instead.
At the next commercial break, Rose again turned to look up at Sherlock.
"Do you still think of me as a prostitute?"
Her eyes were large and glistened with emotion. She had to know what his thoughts were now that there was no longer payment involved, and she needed reassurances, from someone who also knew of her past, that being a sex worker was no longer her sole identity.
The question caught Sherlock by surprise, although his composure didn't show it. He waited a beat before answering, not out of the careful consideration of his words, but because he really was trying to determine what label he'd affixed to Rose these days.
"I think of you as..."
He didn't regard Rose in the same light as he had two years ago. She was someone he wanted to be around since his return, for her own sake, not for the services she once offered. He felt he needed her for... something undefinable - companionship most likely. Whenever he thought about her and felt the compulsion to see her he would just think of her as...
"...Rose. Just Rose."
Rose's eyes stung with tears, but she fought to keep them at bay. She sat up, and awkwardly climbed over Sherlock and from the sofa. Sherlock's eyes followed her with curious interest.
"Just a minute," she said.
Rose walked over to the side table nearest the armchair opposite and rummaged through her handbag. She drew out the white envelope that she'd kept forgetting about and brought it back to Sherlock.
"This is yours," she said, sitting down on the coffee table in front of him and holding out the envelope.
Sherlock glanced at the partially opened packet and could see the notes contained within. He didn't make a move to accept it.
"Why?" he asked.
"I never wanted payment from you the first night you came back, or any other night after that. I don't do that any more. I told you that."
She offered it to him but Sherlock waved it away.
"I don't need it. Why don't you keep it? Buy more tobacco; I've used all of yours. And soap, too. I don't like the coconut stuff. Then there's the utilities - the hot water..."
Sherlock had sat up slowly as he spoke. Something didn't compute here. If she didn't do that any more and wouldn't accept payment, then what was the £10,000 cheque from Mycroft all about?
But Rose was still speaking. "...I don't want the money that was intended as payment for sex, or companionship, or whatever."
Sherlock knew he needed to tread carefully here, rather than just accuse her outright of either lying or holding that occupation from which she was trying so desperately to disassociate herself.
"Just leave it, Rose," he said, sounding defeated. He took the envelope from her and lightly tossed it onto the table next to her. "I'll buy the tobacco then. And soap. I prefer a more natural scent. You don't mind, do you?" He tried to smile to alleviate the tension a little before launching into what he hoped sounded like a subject change, but to him, it was really the crux of the matter. "My brother's cheque. What did you do with it?"
Rose furrowed her brow at the mention of Sherlock's over-bearing sibling. "I burnt it."
Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, his mind a jumble of thoughts. If Mycroft offered her money to spy on, have sex with, or give therapy to Sherlock, and she hadn't accepted, what were the consequences? Nothing, he surmised, until Rose spoke again.
"Did you talk to him? Is he going to be okay with that?"
She looked distressed, so Sherlock knew he'd definitely missed something.
"I told him not to speak to you again," he replied. It was the truth and if he had made the correct assumption all along, that should've be the end of it, he thought.
But he hadn't and it wasn't, judging by the even more alarming expression Rose now wore.
"He could still tell everyone about me, and..." Rose struggled to remember what it was Mycroft had implied the Security Services could do to her.
Sherlock set his jaw firmly. So the interfering, uptight, busy body had threatened her to do his bidding? He could still tell everyone about me... Sherlock swiftly concluded that Mycroft had threatened to expose her as a prostitute to all who knew her in her present life. But despite all of his control freakiness, his brother was hardly the type to force a woman into sexual slavery. He may have tried to bribe John Watson into spying on Sherlock, but Mycroft was relatively fine when the doctor declined his offer. Rose was clearly fearful. This still didn't add up, and Sherlock was feeling quite disconcerted that it wasn't all as clear cut as he'd first assumed.
He spoke softly to Rose, now choosing his words ever so carefully. "Mycroft was pretty vague to me about his offer to you. I'll double check he's got the message."
Sherlock stood up and looked about the room for his jacket. "Have you seen my phone?"
Rose twisted around, reaching behind her to retrieve Sherlock's phone for him. "What if it's too late?" she asked in a small voice, standing up also as she handed him the phone.
"Leave everything to me," he said in an even voice. He navigated through his contacts until he came to the pompous arse's details. With his thumb hovering over the dial key, Sherlock tried to keep his voice light and casual as he asked Rose, "What exactly was his threat as you understand it?"
Rose crossed her arms defensively. "He... he... um..." She swallowed while rearranging her thoughts. "As well as bribing me with the cheque, he said if I kept seeing you he'd tell my parents, and everyone else that I was a prostitute, and..."
Sherlock's head reeled at this significant revelation. Bribed her to stay away from him?
Rose continued, "And he'd tell Scotland Yard that I was trying to entrap you..."
Bastard, thought Sherlock, clenching his jaw.
"...and something about the Security Services finding something on my computer."
Sherlock tapped Dial with his thumb. He brought the phone up to his ear, and reached out to rub Rose's arm reassuringly, all the while being bombarded with random thoughts.
I still want to see you, she'd said outside the strip club. She had risked being exposed and even prosecution by the Met - although that accusation was laughable - in order to defy Mycroft's order, and Sherlock had dismissed the whole incident as being one of Mycroft's silly little power plays. She wanted to keep seeing him and hadn't been motivated to do so for financial reasons.
You're so nice. I really like you.
Sherlock pushed aside all confusing thoughts as his brother answered the phone with his usual tired greeting.
Sherlock wasted no time getting down to business. He was seething by this stage, but he was able to maintain a steadiness to his voice.
"I trust you've received the message loud and clear by now that Rose is not accepting your generous offer?"
He heard Mycroft sigh deeply into the phone. Rose tensed as she stood in front of him, so Sherlock dropped the arm that held the phone and reached out to her with his other hand. Cupping the nape of her neck, he leant his forehead against hers and spoke in a low voice to her. "It will be fine. I'll fix this."
He then kissed her on the forehead and stepped away from her, bringing his phone back up to his ear. Mycroft was just finishing a tiny monologue on addictive behaviour.
"Let me remind you, brother dear," Sherlock began in a soothing voice, "... that I've been away for two years, a time during which our mother has been worried sick. If she hears that you're attempting to ruin any chance I have of leading some semblance of a normal life, she will be most upset. Again. And it will be all your fault. Again."
Rose stood astounded, watching Sherlock listening to his brother's protests. Really, Rose thought, this man who can bend the British Security Services to his whims is afraid of upsetting his mother? What kind of woman was she?
Sherlock had silently hung up on his brother and smiled resignedly at Rose. His heart was thumping awkwardly as he didn't know how to process all of the data he now held in his mind. But Rose didn't know about his inner torments as she rushed at him. She wound her arms around his neck and held him tightly. Sherlock embraced her in return, trying to make sense of it all, and silently chastising himself for getting the whole Mycroft interference thing wrong.
"Okay, Rose," he said, gently patting her on the back. "The show's back on. I want to see if I'm right about the U.S. Marshal."
"You are right," Rose responded as Sherlock returned to the sofa. "The missing woman is actually..."
"Shh, Rose! Don't spoil it!"
Rose noted that Sherlock had made room for her on the sofa again, so she lay back down next to him, having no intention of watching the movie herself. Once more she found Sherlock's fingers in her hair and she closed her eyes, enjoying his gentle touch.
Sherlock only half-watched the telly as scene after scene verified his theory thus rendering the plot completely dull and uninteresting. His mind was still on Rose and her motivations. The money had tainted things a bit, he had thought, but now that was out of the equation. In fact, it had always been out of the equation, since his return. She simply liked his company, a notion that left Sherlock feeling bewildered. But he was comforted by the fact that he didn't have to feel alone - that she hadn't been employed to hang around him and keep him in check. And he liked Rose, he really did. What did that mean, exactly?
Sherlock turned his focus from the screen for a moment and pressed his lips to the top of Rose's head. Keeping them there, he felt a sudden unfamiliar pressure in his chest, and a strange churning in his gut.
Rose felt Sherlock's gesture and was immediately warmed by it. The danger of Mycroft's threat no longer weighed heavily on her mind, and she now felt safe and secure in Sherlock's arms, a feeling she hadn't experienced in the arms of a man in a very long time.
And there was another emotion she hadn't felt in an age:
The feeling of being loved.
.
A/N: Thanks Aqua7Night for reminding me about the money. This chapter took on a new dimension because of it. And I'm glad you all love the Sherlock cuddles. Me too!
UPDATE 13th Jan 2016: This chapter has been edited to be consistent with changes made to chapter 1.
