Chapter 26 - I've Seen Those Symptoms Before

Rose could hear the swell of excited voices, laughter and footsteps as a small group of staff members descended on the tiny office at the back of Roches Home Entertainment. Melanie, a tiny in-store promoter for a leading electronic brand, and one of a handful of staff members Rose actually got along with, told Rose she had to come out to sign something.

Rose looked at the faces peering excitedly through the door.

"Secret admirer," teased Sunil, a flamboyant retail sales assistant.

Feeling bewildered, Rose left the office and followed the group out to the middle of the store where the service counter sat. Another retail assistant, Kelly, who possessed a particularly dominating personality, was fawning over the courier. The young man stood awkwardly by the floral arrangement that was perched on the counter, holding a delivery slip for Rose to sign.

"Are ya sure they're not for me?" Kelly said, giving the bouquet a once over as Rose and company approached.

Rose's stomach dropped when she realised what all the fuss was about—a delivery of flowers, for her. She quickly glanced around in case Ewan was nearby. She had the sinking feeling the young man was attempting for the second time to go on a date with her, even though the last one had ended with him walking in on her snogging Sherlock on the day the Consulting Detective returned to London and had re-entered her life.

Rose signed the slip of paper as quickly as was humanly possible and tried to maintain a cool exterior on receiving the bouquet.

"Who are they from then?" Kelly practically bellowed.

"I'll need to read the card," Rose replied, plucking the small envelope from the centre of the arrangement.

Rose was surprised at how bulky it felt, and not what she expected if it contained a single greeting card. She was relieved when Sunil offered to find a vase for the bouquet in the tiny kitchen at the back of the store. She let him take the flowers from her, and she made a beeline back to her office, with only Melanie in tow, the others having rapidly lost interest.

"Do you think they're from him?" Melanie asked. She was the only one in whom Rose occasionally confided, in a general sense. She'd told the woman that she was having relationship troubles with her boyfriend, and didn't elaborate beyond that.

"I don't think so," Rose replied. "He's not a sending flowers type of guy."

"Probably Ewan then," Melanie said, winking conspiratorially at Rose. "I'll give you a yell later, yeah? Drinks?"

"Sure," Rose answered, distracted by opening the envelope as she escaped into the office.

Thankfully she had the small room to herself. Her and Gus's shifts usually overlapped in the middle of the day, and as he had opened the store that morning, she was on closing duties, which was only an hour away.

She slid the bulky contents out of the tiny envelope and was confused as to why there were four greeting cards. Feeling apprehensive, she opened the first one. It was covered in handwriting from top to bottom and began with, I don't know why I have to write this.

Frowning, she quickly glanced at the second card. It, too, was completely full of handwriting, and so was the third. On the fourth, her eyes dropped to the last line.

Can I see you soon? Please. —SH.

It was the hesitant plea at the end, and the realisation that it was from Sherlock that caused Rose to drop the cards onto her desk, and take her head in her hands. The tears fell easily enough. Her guilt over hurting Sherlock and her love for the man, when she cared to admit it to herself, consumed her completely these days. But she was reluctant to see him because of the horrid group counselling session she had taken part in.

The group was suggested to her by her counsellor, Adele, who advised Rose to sit at the back and observe, to gauge if she thought the group dynamics could help her. After several minutes, Rose decided it wouldn't, but she stayed put until the end of the session. The members consisted of street workers, addicts mostly, some who were single mothers, a handful working through exiting the industry, and others just in need of support. Rose didn't fit the demographic at all, just as Sherlock had pointed out ages ago.

But it was over a cup of tea at the end of the session that Rose struck up a conversation with another girl, a tiny young thing, who had also sat at the back and observed. Eden looked like she belonged in a choir, but she ended up being a uni student who had worked as a call girl for the last year. She had fallen in love with a client.

Rose couldn't believe the similarity in their circumstances and was just about to confide in Eden when one of the other sex workers, who had been eavesdropping, started abusing the girl.

"'e just says 'e loves ya, to 'ave a free fuck. 'ow stupid are ya!"

"Please don't speak to her like that," Rose stepped in, speaking quite calmly considering her hammering heart. She began to explain that perhaps there were extenuating circumstances and that people shouldn't be so quick to judge, but she was also met with a torrent of abuse.

"Who the fuck are ya, comin' in 'ere an' tellin' us what to do!"

Meanwhile Eden had fled, and Rose was taken aside by Adele. When Rose suggested that she and Eden form their own counselling group, she was met with opposition. To be fair, she hadn't told Adele everything about her own situation and background—the fake suicide by the man she had come to love, the overbearing brother who had threatened her reputation, and the offer from Sherlock to make her previous client disappear. Some things just couldn't be spoken about so candidly.

Rose feared that her self-imposed absence from Sherlock's life would have little effect on the man. When she came home each day, she secretly hoped he'd be lying there, on her sofa, ready to tell her some trivial thing he'd observed about one of her neighbours. She would check the balcony before entering the building as well, and her heart would thud dully in her chest when she went to unlock her door. It always ended in disappointment.

But the flowers said it all. Well, at least the cards probably did if she could stop crying long enough to read the damn things.

Rose wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers, before grabbing a tissue and dabbing underneath her lower lashes, assuming she had now smeared her mascara. She attempted to read the first card again, concentrating hard on Sherlock's spidery scrawl that was difficult to read in places. She guessed he wrote quite rapidly, his hand struggling to keep pace with his thoughts.

I don't know why I have to write this. Apparently the message that goes with the meaning behind the flowers is far too obscure for you to interpret, and a "Sorry, get well soon," type of sentiment found in their pre-made cards isn't appropriate. It's quite alarming the lack of imagination the authors of those cards possess. A card for every occasion? I think not. What about, "I'm sorry your father was attacked by a psychotic scientist, who was suffering the ill-effects of mind-altering experiments." Nothing even comes close. I'm not sure why I'm bothering with the flowers at all, when I could just send you this card. Well, I'm coming to the end of the card now—stupid tiny thing that it is—so I'll have to buy another.

Rose found herself quietly laughing at Sherlock's attempts at being romantic, if that's what this was. She missed him terribly, she realised; his perspective on social conventions was always so refreshing to hear. She turned to the second card.

What I'm trying to say Rose is... Well, I'm not saying anything. I want to ask you a question instead. Why? Why are you excluding me from your life? Why are you upset? When people are usually upset around me, it's because of something I've done. If someone refuses to see me, it's because of something I've done. You said it wasn't me, yet all the evidence points to the fact that it is me. You need time to get over Mr Sex Deviant? But why do you need to do this away from me? I know I can help in some way. The Czech Republic practises surgically castrating sex offenders. Just thought you'd like to know that, in case you decide to accept my offer. Damn card again.

Rose wiped away a solitary tear, and continued to the third card.

You think I'm writing about sex, but it's not that at all. I want to be a part of your life again. I miss lying on your sofa and having you sit next to me, tapping away at your computer in an effort to further your studies in Psychology. I think that's a brilliant idea, by the way—Forensic Psychology. You could work with me! And I promise we won't continue with the study. Well, maybe later, when you're feeling better. That sounds like an appropriate greeting card. "Get well soon. Hope you'll be testing condoms with me again before too long." Speaking of cards...

Rose dabbed a tissue at her eyes again, and continued on to the last one.

Ring me, Rose, or text me. Or something. Send me flowers! Or not. I don't really think this is an effective method of communication, but I've done it now. I've filled in the little form to get this delivered to your workplace. You don't mind do you? Apparently women like to have everyone else making a fuss over their flowers. It's a curious thing. Just one last question: Can I see you soon? Please. —SH.

Rose shuddered out a sob and cried into her hands again. She couldn't not see him after such a ridiculous message. Her sobs soon turned to tears of laughter, and she was in this state when Sunil entered the office with her bouquet.


Sherlock checked his watch again. Surely the flowers would've been delivered by now. The florist had said the delivery window was between 1pm and 5pm. It was now 5:42pm. He felt frustrated that he didn't have any details beyond that. When he'd quizzed the florist about delivery routes, she invited him to leave. He only wanted vague suburb names, really, in order of priority. Surely that information wasn't too hard to obtain from the courier company they used?

"Have you finished with this?" Molly asked, indicating the microscope that Sherlock had abandoned in favour of pacing about the lab.

"Sorry, what?"

Molly gestured to the microscope and Sherlock gave her a faint nod in return.

When his phone chimed, he muttered, "Finally."

"Waiting for some data?" Molly asked conversationally.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he read the message.

"Rose, what day is it?"

A heavy silence hung in the air, before Molly cleared her throat and replied, "It's Friday. And the name is Molly."

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "I know," he replied, giving the pathologist a puzzled look. He then glanced back down at his phone, frowned once more, before shoving it into his jacket pocket.

"Not good?" Molly ventured.

Sherlock grabbed at his coat that was draped over the back of a stool and pulled it around himself. "Not the best," he replied distractedly.

Can I see you on Wednesday at your place? was the part of Rose's text he objected to. Wednesday was so far away. That must mean she didn't want to see him as desperately as he needed to see her.

The first part of her message had filled him with so much hope: Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful. Your message was very special too. I miss you and would like to see you soon.

She missed him? So what was keeping her away from him? Did his message put her off?

He'd spent so long sitting at the florist shop, composing those cards. There were so many moments where he had wanted to tear them up, walk out and forget the whole thing. But during the hour he'd spent writing, quite a number of people, of both genders, young and old, had entered the shop, all basically asking for the same thing—something special for somebody special. So it was the done thing, apparently. He had soldiered on, and found the whole process quite cathartic in the end. At first it was difficult—should he state his feelings? What were they, exactly? But he found it better just to say exactly what he wanted. Rose knew him well enough by now to interpret the sentiment behind the words.

But this whole situation was nothing short of ridiculous.


She tried so hard to refrain from crying but his firm embrace set Rose off anyway, and she buried her face into his neck.

"You're still upset," Sherlock murmured into her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. Apple and peach, or something. And then there was her soap; the coconut may irritate his skin, but all of the combinations of these scents that bombarded his senses only served to remind him that he no longer had Rose, nor the quiet sanctity of her flat.

He didn't think he'd ever complain about her wispy strands of hair irritating his chest again. Just what would that feel like? Lying in bed and holding her close? Waking up next to her? It had been so long, and he didn't want to let her go right now.

"No, I'm just happy to see you," Rose replied, her voice sounding distinctly muffled.

She drew away a little and looked up at him, noticing that his face was full of concern.

"I'm sorry," he began, "but the way you reacted on remembering being fucked by sick perverts seems very similar to this response."

Rose couldn't help but laugh lightly, before her expression grew momentarily serious, and she pressed her lips to Sherlock's, closing her eyes and bringing her body in close to his. She felt his hesitance to reciprocate and didn't blame him for wanting to remain cautious.

On breaking their kiss, she whispered, "Thank you for the flowers."

"Did... did you like them?" Sherlock asked carefully. He really considered the whole exercise pointless. Except for the cards. He'd put a lot of thought into those.

"They were beautiful, and a wonderful surprise. I left them at work though; they brighten up the office. I took your cards home of course, since they're so special." Rose's eyes twinkled in delight. "And the rose."

"What rose?" Sherlock asked slowly, narrowing his eyes at her.

"The single rose in the centre of the bouquet. I couldn't resist taking one flower home, especially a red rose. I thought maybe you picked it because it reminded you of me. You know, a rose?"

Sherlock's chest almost heaved in horror at the thought of the liberty taken by the florist. The elder woman had advised Sherlock it would all be done before the courier's scheduled pick up time that afternoon, so he'd let her bustle him out of the shop without getting to see the final arrangement. But the genuine smile Rose was giving him had him conclude that the symbolism behind the red rose wasn't an issue after all.

"Something like that," he muttered, feeling keen to change the subject all the same.

Rose's mouth curved into a smile once more, and she kissed him lightly again, before pulling away completely.

"How about tea?" she asked, moving toward the armchairs and away from him.

"Tea?" Sherlock repeated.

"Shall I put the kettle on?"

She was keeping busy, and was avoiding getting too intimate with him; Sherlock could see that.

"If you like," he responded, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"I've got just enough time for a cuppa before I have to leave for work," she called back from the kitchen.

Sherlock felt as if he'd been stabbed. She was going to work! She wasn't here to spend the day with him.

"Have you been busy?" she asked as she filled the kettle.

Sherlock sank into his armchair. He needed to maintain a cool composure otherwise he was going to yell at her for playing games with his emotions.

"A couple of cases," he answered vaguely.

But Rose glanced over at him, and raised her eyebrows to encourage him to elaborate. Sherlock enlightened her over the case of the poison giant, reluctantly at first, but found it easier once he'd got going. Rose was understandably horrified that someone had arranged an ambush for Sherlock and John, but Sherlock shrugged it off as no longer of interest to him.

He mentioned the elephant in the room case, but skirted around the finer details, since that one was protected under the Official Secrets Act.

Rose asked him about his cases in general, how he normally coordinated with Scotland Yard, and how it felt to be working with John again, all over a cup of tea, seated comfortably by the fire. It was quite pleasant, and sedate, but felt somewhat contrived, at least to Sherlock. Before long it was time for Rose to leave for work.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. She'd been there a little under an hour. He felt his composure rapidly disintegrating, and he asked tentatively, "Can I see you after work tonight?"

He could see Rose falter as she rinsed out their tea cups in the sink. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and made her way back to the living area, looking as if she was trying to choose her words carefully.

"If you could still be patient with me just a little longer," she began.

"Patience is not one of my strong points," Sherlock responded, rising from his armchair.

Rose smiled weakly, all false confidence abandoned.

"I'm still working through some things," she stated, barely able to make eye contact with Sherlock. "I just need time before things can get back to the way they were." There was a slight tremor in Rose's voice so she paused a moment before continuing. "I need to progress slowly."

Sherlock had shoved his fists into his pockets and clenched them out of sight in frustration. He still had the vague sense that he was being punished somehow. But all these things she was saying—needing time, progressing things slowly—these were all vacuous words. Of course they were coming from some airhead, Sherlock concluded.

"Are you seeing a therapist now?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm considering the animosity he felt toward this anonymous third party, who he assumed was largely responsible for keeping Rose away from him.

"Of sorts," Rose replied.

She didn't want to tell Sherlock about the failed group counselling session, or that she had no intention of returning to her individual private sessions. She had found a sympathetic ear in the unlikely form of her neighbour, Tonya Small. They had been having morning tea together whenever Rose had a late start at the entertainment store. And Rose had taken up journal writing, an activity that she found surprisingly therapeutic.

"Is it working for you?"

Rose nodded imperceptibly. She hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's growing agitation, and she felt compelled to leave immediately to relieve the poor man of her miserable company. She hastened over to him, gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and said, "Thank you for being so understanding. I'll ring you next week."

She felt Sherlock open his mouth to say something, but she bid a hasty retreat, snatching up her bag before she lost her composure in front of him once again. She left the flat, not knowing what Sherlock was going to say, if anything at all.

A sudden wave of despair—a sense of rejection and abandonment—surged through Sherlock, leaving him short of breath and dizzy. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly before pinching the bridge of his nose to alleviate the pressure.

What was going on? Why was he feeling this way? His head was reeling with a thousand thoughts simultaneously bombarding it, and his stomach felt as though he'd been kicked by an assailant wearing steel-capped boots. He paced furiously about his living room, almost tearing at his hair as he raked his fingers through it, resisting the urge to race downstairs and demand that she come back.

Fuck!

He wanted to yell, and kick something or someone.


It was Sunday afternoon, and Rose was assisting the staff at the Rendezvous to set up for a private function to be held that evening. A large group of business delegates from abroad had booked out the entire club for their end of trip night of entertainment. It was going to be a huge money earner for the club, and Rose was happy to work for a few hours when Gary, the owner, asked her to come in to help with their preparations.

Rose didn't care to ask what kind of businessmen they were—she had an inkling they were organised crime—so she was relieved that she didn't have to work any shifts that night. Her delicate psyche these days probably couldn't handle having to rebuff propositions thrown in her direction. Most of the usual clientele could accept that the cloakroom attendant was not available for private lap dancing sessions, and Rose could usually fend off such requests. Past experience had told her that Gary was going to rotate the dancers through the cloakroom that evening, just so nobody had to say 'No' to these particular businessmen.

She was just helping Henry, one of the bouncers, to install a row of LED lighting along the length of the bar, when Caity, a dancer who had been with the club almost as long as Rose had, rushed up to her.

"Rose! It's Angel!" Caity announced breathlessly. "She's having a panic attack again!"

Rose sighed and exchanged a glance with Henry.

"Go," Henry said, shaking his head in exasperation. He'd also heard it all before. "This is the last one anyway."

Rose handed the bouncer the remaining cable tie she was holding, then followed Caity toward the back of the club and through to the dressing room.

Angel was one of her favourite dancers, and the stripper had only been with the club for six months. Her real name was May Sutherland, but she was called Angel because her complexion gave her an unearthly and innocent quality, especially when her long dark hair was covered in a blonde wig. Everyone else was tired of hearing about her affair with her university lecturer, and having to listen to her voice her suspicions that he wasn't separated from his wife as he had claimed. Her ever-increasing panic attacks would cripple her in terms of performing. If she wasn't such a popular and profitable dancer, Rose was sure Gary would've fired her long ago.

Rose was able to talk May through her concerns, and finally convinced the young woman to accompany Rose to see Sherlock later in the week. Rose had recommended the Consulting Detective's services to May over the last couple of weekends, but May always hesitated in taking her up on the offer, thinking that she was somehow betraying her lover by hiring someone to investigate him.

When Rose had finished at the club in the early evening, she caught the tube back to Bayswater. She was looking forward to having dinner with Tonya. The Clarence House Cannibal was helping Rose work out a strategy for reconciling with her parents, as well as giving her a sounding board for her thoughts on establishing a healthier relationship with Sherlock. Rose had progressed as far as deciding to keep her visits to Sherlock no more than weekly, and she had organised a lunch date with her mother the coming Tuesday.

For the next two days, she had early starts opening the entertainment store. Working in the office constantly reminded her of Sherlock, although the flowers were now gone, but the empty vase still stood on top of the filing cabinet. She was going to send him a text about her and May's visit so that he could expect them; she was sure that phoning him would risk her turning into a blubbering mess on hearing his voice. She was intending to meet May at the Baker Street station in the late afternoon on Tuesday, after Rose finished her shift, but Gus, her co-worker, called in sick, meaning Rose had to stay late to close the store. She phoned May to postpone, but in a rare moment of self-confidence, the stripper said she would visit Sherlock herself.


Sherlock leant his head against the back of his armchair and closed his eyes, his satisfaction at solving another case rather short-lived. He was in danger of sinking into a deep depressive state on not only having no thrilling cases to solve, but also because Rose had sent him a text, and it had nothing to do with her visiting him.

John stood by the window, chuckling to himself as he observed Sherlock's previous clients leaving. Sherlock had advised them that yes, their son-in-law was trying to cheat them out of their life savings. This left the couple gleeful as they immediately began scheming about how to live out the rest of their lives splurging every last penny and thoroughly enjoying themselves in the process. John enjoyed watching them as they walked along Baker Street, arm in arm, a new spring in their step.

"We could make that a new invigorating programme for seniors," he commented, with his attention still on the retired couple. "Live your life and stuff the inheritance. Could catch on."

Sherlock ignored the doctor's musings, preferring to wallow in self-pity.

"Ah, here's a potential client," John said, after a further minute of people-watching through the living room window. "Is she a client?" he queried on observing the young woman hesitate before their front door. "Oh yes... she's going to ring the doorbell. Oh no, she's changed her mind. No, she's gonna do it. No, she's leaving. She's leaving," John said, sighing in disappointment. He then cleared his throat, before raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, she's coming back."

"She's a client; she's boring. I've seen those symptoms before," Sherlock intoned.

John threw a glance in Sherlock's direction. "Hmm?"

"Oscillation on the pavement always means there's a love affair," Sherlock explained without opening his eyes. He had an inkling he knew who this woman was.

At the sound of the doorbell, John left the window, and trotted downstairs to receive the young woman. Sherlock reluctantly stood up and casually placed his hands into his pockets, ready to greet Rose's stripper friend—another reminder that Rose was barely in his life.


Rose was feeling quite positive that this time she wouldn't become overly-emotional and nearly breakdown in front of Sherlock. This time, they'll have a more intimate conversation and discuss how they feel about each other—mark this visit as progress.

She used the key Sherlock had given her to let herself into 221. She had sent him a text the night before, thanking him for helping her friend, May, and she added, after giving it some thought, Can I visit you tomorrow morning?

Sherlock had replied almost immediately, You don't have to ask. Come around any time —SH.

Shutting the door behind her, Rose walked through to the stairwell door and paused when she heard the sound of male laughter floating downstairs from above. She recognised that laugh, although it had been two years since she'd last heard it. Two years in the exact same location—when she and John Watson were slowly getting tipsy on gin and tonic, attempting to have a laugh about the late Sherlock Holmes, right before they started snogging.

Rose couldn't go up just yet. It would be too awkward. What would Sherlock say? John, do you remember Shelley? To which John would reply, Of course I do. She's really called Rose isn't she? And isn't she that prostitute you used to pay to have sex with? Come to mention it, I think I almost tapped that the night before your funeral, mate. A freebie, she said. Good times.

Rose hovered at the bottom of the staircase, listening to both John's and Sherlock's easy-going banter. She wondered what they were discussing.

"Are you right, love?"

Rose was momentarily startled by the landlady who had emerged from her rooms at the back of the passageway, carrying a feather duster.

Mrs Hudson had recognised Rose. She had let the young woman into the flat a few times, more-so before Sherlock's 'suicide', but she remembered the pretty young thing all the same.

"Oh, I'm just... I think he's got company," Rose said, gazing upward toward the landing. She was at a loss as to what excuse to give for hovering in the entranceway.

Mrs Hudson lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "It's only John. You remember John, don't you? Sherlock's colleague?"

Rose's pulsed raced, accelerating along with her stress levels. She heard John's voice coming closer, as he spoke, pausing at the threshold of Sherlock's open living room door.

"Just stop being an arse and go," John demanded in a firm but affectionate tone.

"Could I just... do you think we could..." Rose indicated back along the passageway, and made moves toward the landlady's kitchen, as a look of alarm grew on her face.

John's voice disappeared back into the flat as Rose and Mrs Hudson retreated into the kitchen.

"What is it, dear?" Mrs Hudson ask hurriedly, her voice full of concern.

"I can't let John see me," Rose replied, thinking quickly. When Mrs Hudson looked puzzled, Rose drew in a sharp breath. How could she tell Mrs Hudson the truth when she herself didn't know how to define her and Sherlock's relationship? And how did Sherlock define it? Breathing out slowly, to steady her nerves she said, "When I used to visit Sherlock, I was only a psychology student, writing a paper."

Mrs Hudson looked thoughtful. "Yes, John said something like that," she recalled.

"Well, I graduated, and now... well, I do counselling work... sometimes, and Sherlock kind of asked me to... I don't know," Rose paused, shrugging a little, "listen to him, I guess. He just needs someone to—"

"The poor dear, of course he does. All that hiding out abroad, and possibly..." Mrs Hudson lowered her voice and leant in conspiratorially, "… fighting bad people. I expect he's a bit traumatised."

Rose smiled wanly. "So he doesn't want anybody to know he's sort of receiving therapy, if that's okay."

The kindly lady nodded her understanding and affectionately patted Rose on the arm. She offered Rose a cuppa while they waited for the doctor to leave. Mrs Hudson regaled a sufficiently surprised Rose with stories of drug cartels and exotic dancing in Florida.


Sherlock stood by the living room window brooding as his eyes scanned Baker Street. Rose was late, if she had intended arriving at the same time as last week. She wouldn't have time to visit him and then make it all the way to her workplace for an 11am start, Sherlock concluded. As the minutes ticked by and John's voice moved to the background, Sherlock grew more agitated. Outwardly, he appeared to be in a pensive mood, save for the rapid tapping together of the thumb and middle finger on his right hand.

He wasn't even concerned that John had shown up to personally hand Sherlock the business card of the tailor so that he could get measured for his best man's suit.

"You'd accidentally on purpose delete my message if I sent the details to you via text or email," John had reprimanded the detective, even before the latter had a chance to be at fault.

What did it matter if Rose arrived while John was still here, Sherlock thought. John would remember Rose surely—although he may only know her as Shelley. But Shelley had tried to proposition John, Sherlock remembered, and John had grown wary of her. Still, she had come around to the flat to offer her condolences, Rose told him, and stolen the Union Jack cushion at the same time. John probably had a less than high opinion of her.

Sherlock didn't care though.

He would tell John had he been seeing Rose continuously ever since he returned, and that he'd visited Rose just days after his 'suicide' two years ago as well.

Oh hang on. John wouldn't be happy to hear that another person was privy to that information. I'd best keep that little fact hidden then.

"Well, I'm off," John stated, his task completed. "I've got a late start today. Just try to get to the tailor and measured before Christmas, okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes then nodded his acquiescence. He'd given up on protesting and trying to convince John that the suits he normally wore on a daily basis would be perfectly adequate for the wedding.

John left, rapidly descending the stairs, as Sherlock drew out his phone from his jacket pocket.

He was disappointed to find that there were no messages from Rose stating that she was delayed and that she was on her way. He thought about ringing her, or sending her a text, but then baulked at the idea. He'd already said Please once in his greeting card; any more messages asking to see her and he would start to appear desperate.

The sound of rapid footsteps ascending the stairs made his heart flutter until he realised there had been no preceding sound of the front door clicking shut. Mrs Hudson then, he thought in disappointment. But, wait! The footsteps were too light and too quick for the landlady.

There was no time for Sherlock to ponder this mystery any further because Rose materialised at the top of the staircase at that moment and Sherlock's heart leapt into his mouth.

"Sorry," she said, slightly out of breath. "I was having tea with your landlady."

Such a notion didn't compute in Sherlock's mind. "What?" he asked hesitantly.

Rose kept walking toward him, her expression relaxed and pleasant. Evidently a cup of tea and a natter with Mrs Hudson had done her the world of good.

"Well, I heard John's voice, so I stayed down there until he left. She's lovely."

She planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips as the Consulting Detective still puzzled over what had just happened downstairs.

"You did what?" he asked, putting a hand lightly on Rose's back when she remained in front of him. "Why didn't you just ring me or send a text?"

"I didn't think of it," Rose replied, suddenly feeling guilty when she realised just how anxious Sherlock had become while he had been waiting for her.

Sherlock let out a breath of exasperation and he dropped his arm.

Moving away from her, he asked, "Shall I put the kettle on?"

Rose turned to face Sherlock who was striding into the kitchen. "I can't stay now. I have to get to work."

Sherlock spun around and immediately walked back into the living room. "You just got here!"

"I've been here for a while," Rose replied, vaguely gesturing in the direction of the stairwell.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in irritation. This situation was just getting worse as the days passed, he thought. "You should've just come up."

"It seemed a bit awkward," Rose replied, shrugging lightly. In Sherlock's eyes perhaps her excuse appeared weak, but Rose was reluctant to explain the entirety of it—making out with John, the sex they'd almost had, and her confession the next morning to being Sherlock's paid sexual partner.

"I don't care what John thinks," Sherlock said, walking toward Rose. "He's out there living his life exactly the way he wants to. I'm trying to live mine. What business is it of his who visits me?"

Rose was disappointed in herself once more. She seemed to wear the negative emotion like a permanent coat these days. She stepped into Sherlock's personal space and put her hands lightly on his chest. "I promise I'll come earlier next week."

She pressed her lips to his as Sherlock wound his arms around her. He reciprocated this time, and the warm demand of his mouth, sensuous in its growing intensity, caused a mild panic to rise up inside Rose.

She pulled back, breaking their kiss, and murmured against his lips, "Next week, okay?"

"Next week?" Sherlock repeated, his voice rough with desire. "Why not tomorrow, or tonight?" He brushed her lips with his again, hoping to change her mind.

Rose lightly pushed against his chest, breaking away from him as he reluctantly released her.

"No, it has to be... next week," she responded weakly. She could barely convince herself that this was the best option. How did she hope to persuade Sherlock?

Sherlock was confused. Her cheeks were flushed, and her pupils were blown. Obviously aroused. But why is she playing games? He could feel his temper building as the idea of rejection swam around his head once more.

"What's going on? Why are you—"

Suddenly the light dawned in Sherlock's eyes, and his face hardened. "I see what you're doing here," he declared, his voice like gravel.

"What?"

"This," he said, gesturing toward the armchairs. "These weekly visits." He narrowed his eyes, but fixed them on Rose with a fierce intensity. "Every Wednesday is it?" Sherlock coolly glanced at his watch. "And you're late. You should've been here at nine."

He stood in front of her, with his hands on his hips, waiting for an explanation.

"What are you talking about?"

"This," he said again. "A Wednesday appointment, just like we used to have, only this time we're not fucking." His voice took on a mocking, lighter tone as he continued. "We're having the tea break though. But no sex, because you're not a prostitute."

Rose let out a long, shaky breath, and her eyes stung at his words. "That's not—"

"Is this what your therapist has suggested you do?" Sherlock asked, a note of derision in his voice. "Mimic our previous appointments, but no sex in the bedroom, just tea in the living room? Should you pay me back two hundred pounds per visit to refund all of our sessions?"

"Sherlock, stop it!"

"You can't refund my virginity, Rose."

"Just stop it!"

"What about Mr Creepazoid? Are you visiting his little love nest too, erasing all the degrading acts he made you take part in, by drinking endless cups of tea and chatting about the weath—"

Rose suddenly lashed out with a resounding slap across Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's face stung. That was hard. It did nothing to quell his anger though, quite the opposite. His eyes blazed with a dark intensity. His voice, by contrast, was quite calm, and he lowered it a notch or two as he spoke. "I was unimpressed with you slapping me that first time." He rubbed his hand down his cheek to his jaw, then abruptly turned from Rose. "Leave," he commanded, his voice almost crackling. He gestured behind him to the door as he slowly moved to the fireplace with his back to her.

Rose trembled with the anger that had provoked her to stop Sherlock in his tracks. Her chest heaved as she tried to gather her thoughts. Turning from him, she made for the door, her heart hammering in her chest.

He'd spoken about that vile, hideous man, Rose thought, her stomach churning at the images he conjured. Such a sick bastard had no place in the life she was striving to make with Sherlock. In attempting to distance herself from that previous world, though, she was driving a wedge between herself and the man she'd come to love. And now he wanted her to—

Rose's descent was suddenly halted three steps from the landing. She hadn't heard Sherlock pursue her until he grabbed her arm, and had whirled her around. He leant with both hands against the wall, on either side of her, barring her way.

"Don't..." he rasped, his grey eyes glistening with a very real fear. "Don't leave."

Rose's back was pressed up against the wall, and she shuddered out a sob as Sherlock loomed over her.

"You keep leaving," he continued, struggling to recompose himself.

Rose's eyebrows lifted as she struggled to decide if there was still a fury simmering behind Sherlock's eyes, or a sense of despair. He blinked, and neither option was viable any more. He clenched his jaw at her silence and his face clouded over with a look of cold indifference.

"Go," he said, pushing off from the wall.

He didn't look at her again, and rapidly ascended the stairs before disappearing into his living room.

What was that, Rose thought. That fleeting moment of vulnerability? Was he actually referring to her when he said, "You keep leaving," or everyone else in his life? Rose tried to read the meaning behind his expression and his words. But there was one thing she knew for sure—he was hurting, and he needed her. Rose decided that her strategy was all wrong. You don't hurt the one you love.

She straightened her skirt, and readjusted her bag on her shoulder. Inhaling deeply, she slowly ascended the staircase.

.


A/N:

It will get better, and more cuddly, I promise! Let me know what you think so far. The period leading up to the wedding is sooo long!