Chapter 27 - All the Soldiers Like a Nice Girl

He was standing by the living room window, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, staring morosely onto the street below. The Consulting Detective turned his head suddenly as Rose crossed the threshold into his flat. His eyes, which were initially a dull, slate grey, flickered to life. Sherlock was expecting to observe Rose through his living room window, leaving number 221 and walking out of his life once more. It took his brain a split second to register that the vision before him was in fact her, and she had not left him after all.

Sherlock strode hesitantly away from the window, barely able to keep his emotions in check. Rose deposited her bag onto the coffee table and shrugged out of her coat. After draping it over her bag, she crossed the room, meeting Sherlock half-way. Her heart heaved in sympathy when she noted his dark, rounded eyes.

Sherlock pulled Rose into his arms, and held his breath, not daring to make a sound lest he drive her away again. He felt Rose nestle her head underneath his chin, and he held her firmly, a sense of relief washing over him.

As he pressed his lips to her hair and gently rubbed her back, he murmured, "I don't want to have sex with you, Rose. I just need to be near you, for more than a fleeting moment."

Rose's heart thundered in her chest. She felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her and she blinked back tears. She lifted her head and met Sherlock's eyes.

"I know," she responded in a low whisper. "And I'm sorry. I didn't realise the effect my adjustment period was having on you." Rose drew one hand to Sherlock's cheek, where she brushed it lightly with her thumb. "And I'm sorry I slapped you."

Sherlock studied Rose's face, lost in his own confusion of thoughts. "Perhaps I deserved it," he replied, reflecting on his own comments. They had been composed in the heat of the moment, crafted to have an impact, to hurt. Like a wounded bear Sherlock had lashed out thoughtlessly. For that brief moment he had wanted her to experience the pain he was feeling. He was tired of this. Ever since coming back to London, he'd been on the back foot, having to give endless apologies, and feel guilty for finally letting people into his heart, sacrificing himself for them because he cared, so they could turn around and reject him. It hurt, and had left him feeling particularly vulnerable.

For a time he had Rose, though. And she filled in all the gaps for him. She'd made him feel wanted and appreciated. He desperately needed her to be whole again. For him. Was that so selfish?

"I don't know what I can do to help you," he continued, his voice warmed by sincerity, "but staying away from you isn't an option. I just can't do that."

Rose's breath stuttered in her throat, and she observed a tiny flicker of uncertainty grace Sherlock's features. She'd been pushing him away for a couple of weeks now. The poor man must've been feeling rejected and confused. He was swinging through a range of emotions: despair, anger, and cool detachment—the latter, Rose surmised, being his usual coping mechanism.

"I thought it was the best thing for us," Rose began haltingly. "For me. Perhaps not. I'm a lousy therapist as it turns out."

She gave Sherlock a wan smile, which he returned, his face softening in the process.

"I thought you were getting yourself a therapist?" he asked.

"I've been seeing a counsellor. I can't afford to see a private therapist just yet."

She dropped her arms from Sherlock's shoulders and said, "I'll stay a little longer, but I really have to work today—at least this afternoon, because I'm on closing." Her eyes implored Sherlock's, hoping he wouldn't get upset again. "Just let me ring them and say I'll be a couple of hours late, okay? I'll come back tonight if you like. Or you can come over to my place?"

Sherlock's heart lifted by degrees and he nodded, dropping his arms from around Rose so she could make her phone call.

"I'll... ah... I'll come to your flat," Sherlock said when he'd found his voice again. He'd missed her place, more than he thought he could ever miss an ordinary residence. He'd missed the whole routine he had established there. And of course, that terrible hollow sensation in his heart told him he'd missed Rose. That went without saying.

Rose nodded but didn't reply as she listened to someone answering the phone at the entertainment store. She walked away from Sherlock, and into the kitchen while she spoke to a co-worker. At that moment Mrs Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs, looking hesitant.

"Sorry for interrupting your session, Sherlock," she said in a loud whisper. "But your clients have been ringing my doorbell quite a lot. I've sent them all away, while you and Rose have your you know what," she finished, whispering the last part.

Sherlock did a double-take. You know what?

"Isn't yours working?" Mrs Hudson continued, when Sherlock just gave her a look of alarm.

"I disconnected the wiring," he replied, still thrown by the landlady's remark. "It's been ringing non-stop since I returned to Baker Street."

"Oh, that's because you've got clients again," Mrs Hudson commented, tutting at the Consulting Detective.

Sherlock sighed in irritation. These days he only wanted cases to fill the void created by Rose's absence. Now that she was here, a case at the present moment was an unwelcome intrusion, as was Mrs Hudson.

"I'll fix it tomorrow." He waved his hand at the landlady dismissively, and snapped, "Go away."

Mrs Hudson muttered as she turned away, "Death hasn't improved your manners, young man."

Rose finished her call and made her way back into the living room where Sherlock had just finished shutting the door on Mrs Hudson's retreating figure. He locked it for good measure.

Turning in bewilderment, he asked Rose, "What did you tell Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh," Rose laughed, as she dropped her phone into her handbag. She looked sheepish when she noticed Sherlock's expression. "I told her I was your therapist, of sorts."

Sherlock was aghast. "You did what?"

"Well, I had to say something that sounded plausible, if I'm going to be coming and going a lot and letting myself in all the time."

"I don't need therapy. There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock said forcibly.

"I know... I just... I couldn't think of anything else to say."

Sherlock could see that Rose looked contrite, and he struggled against protesting that he would rather be thought of as needing a prostitute than needing a therapist. A physical weakness he could admit to, but rarely a mental one. Amiability won out, for Sherlock didn't want to give Rose any more reasons to walk out on him. He casually shoved his hands into his pockets and quipped, "Why would I want to see you? Apparently you're not a very good therapist. Didn't one of your clients commit suicide?"

Rose's face brightened in relief. "Apparently it was all in his head."

They shared a brief laugh before Sherlock slowly narrowed the gap between them. He ran his hands down her arms before he drew her to him. It was time to start the day over.

"Hello Rose," he said, his voice pitched low.

He bent down and lightly touched his lips to hers. His breath was like a soft caress and Rose melted into him, amid the glorious shimmering heat that radiated between them. His kiss was so tender that Rose held her breath, wanting to savour everything about it.

With his mouth still hovering over hers, Sherlock murmured, "This is your hello kiss."

He brought his hands up to cup Rose's face as their kiss deepened. Twin pulses raced, and Rose emitting a soft sigh against him once again signalled a cautionary warning. He slowly eased out of their kiss. He didn't want to rush into anything only to be thwarted by Rose's memories resurfacing again.

"That's enough to be going on with," he remarked, his voice rough with emotion. He smiled broadly, the sparkle in his eyes sending a warm ripple through Rose.

She opened her mouth to reply when her phone began to ring from her bag.

"Sorry, I have to get that."

Rose muttered something about having to be available until those 'useless bastards' found the invoices for the MacFarlane account. She wrestled her phone from her bag and took the call, while Sherlock drew in a steady breath to reset.

The rest of the world had rushed in, bombarding his senses. A moment ago, all he had experienced was Rose—the way she felt against him, the taste and scent of her—while the evidence that the rest of humanity existed and was calling for his attention had been lost.

He could now hear Mrs Hudson closing the downstairs door on a desperate woman's pleas. His own phone had chimed with no less than three text alerts in the space of one minute. Sherlock fished his phone from his jacket pocket while he sauntered over to the living room window. Looking down onto the street, he could see the emotional visitor hop into a cab. He briefly glanced at his messages: one reminder from John to visit the tailor, one message from Mycroft to ring their mother more often, and a third from Lestrade. That one sounded promising at least.

Sherlock redirected his attention to Rose, who was still talking exasperatedly with her co-worker. She was juggling her phone between shoulder and hand as she filled the kettle. It looked like they were having morning tea after all.


Rose poured herself a second cup, her heart a dull thump in her chest. Should she tell him?

Sherlock cleared his throat and leant closer, his arm sliding further along the back of the couch behind Rose.

"I won't confront him. I promise," he said softly.

Rose left her cup in its saucer on the coffee table and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. Her own were slightly reddened after she had given her emotional account of some of the more unsavoury acts in which she had participated at the bidding of her rich and sick client. She noticed Sherlock's face hardening by degree while she spoke, but he had reached out and gently held her hand, as she had finished her recount.

She exhaled deeply, and then after a quick intake of breath she said quickly, "John Garvie."

There, she'd said it—spoken his name aloud for Sherlock to hear. A tiny weight lifted from her, a miniscule amount really, but she was surprised that sharing the bastard's name with Sherlock could alleviate some of the pain in a way.

Sherlock gave Rose a comforting smile, then moved his arm to her shoulders, pulling her to his chest and kissing the top of her head as she choked out a sob.

John Garvie. The name was unfamiliar to him, but it was now written with a permanent marker on the wall of one room in his Mind Palace. He would not forget.

And God help Mr Garvie. He's going to need it.


Sherlock stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips surveying the carnage that was Rose's living space. Good God, he thought. No wonder she wanted me to come around much later.

Rose had to cut her visit short that morning. The morons at Roches had still not found the invoices for the MacFarlane account and things were getting desperate. Sherlock hadn't minded, since he had an invitation to visit Rose at Leinster Gardens that evening. She wasn't due home until after six, and she'd asked Sherlock to come around for dinner—sometime after eight, she'd specified, because she had to tidy up a bit.

A bit, Sherlock thought humourlessly. This was the home of somebody who had clearly given up. Clean washing spilled from the dryer. No thoughts about saving on her utility bills then. She'd rummaged through the clothing each day to find something to wear but hadn't taken the time to put the rest away. There were dirty clothes dropped onto the floor in a trail leading to the bathroom. No mystery there. Used dishes littered almost every available surface and the aroma of Rose's self-medication hung thickly in the air. Sherlock examined the ashtray on her coffee table. The odd well-formed roach lay amongst Rose's woeful attempts. So her toking friend had called round a couple of times at least, he concluded.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged out of his coat and jacket. Best get to it then.

He opened both the sliding door to the balcony and adjacent window, thankful that the late afternoon downpour had eased a little. Rose's flat could do with a quick airing out, he thought, but she'd really need to get the furnishings and upholstery steam-cleaned before her next inspection by the property manager.

Sherlock swiftly picked up all the rubbish lying about, then rolled up his shirt sleeves and set to work on the dirty dishes. He identified several plates and bowls that belonged to a set he'd seen before, but not in Rose's kitchen cabinets. Of course, he recalled, and he smiled to himself. Looks like Ms Small has been taking care of Rose's meals.

Sherlock rarely cleaned up after himself in his own flat, but that didn't mean he had no idea how to go about it. In Baker Street, his used tea cups disappeared as swiftly as a fresh cup appeared. It was a mystery he'd never thought to solve, and why would he? He long suspected that Mrs Hudson was the culprit, but he really didn't care to find out. As long as it continued to happen, he was happy.

After Sherlock had finished in the living and kitchen areas, he strode into Rose's bedroom and glanced about. It wasn't too bad, just clothing on the floor. Sherlock scooped up a handful and swiftly sorted them into clean and dirty. He was surprised to find his own dressing gown amongst the pile. A quick sniff of his gown had him conclude that Rose had been wearing it. The mixed scents immediately reminded him of her—coconut-scented soap and apple-pear shampoo. The idea that she'd missed him to this extent warmed his heart.

Bedroom done, so that just left the bathroom.

Sherlock found that the flat had been aired out enough and the temperature was rapidly dropping with the open door and window. He closed both before he commenced tackling the bathroom. It wasn't too bad either, with a few clothes discarded here and there. But Sherlock's heart was wrenched from his chest when he noticed the bubbling of the paint work on the cornices above the shower—damage usually caused by an excessive amount of steam.

He sighed deeply. Rose was normally very efficient with her water usage, but evidently she had taken to having prolonged showers, as hot as she could stand it, to cleanse herself most probably.

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the bathroom with his fists clenched, willing himself to calm down. Was it possible to feel retrospectively protective? The things I could do to that pervert, Sherlock thought darkly, and then the evidence I could subsequently hide to exclude me from the list of suspects...

He'd spent the better part of his day researching the prick, in between solving a case for Lestrade via Skype, and another for a private client over a series of emails.

John Garvie was the current member for Rockwell South, a lack-lustre constituency in which the man himself had lived as a lad, and returned to in his adult life. He was married, and he and his wife of twenty-two years had one daughter, the apple of her father's eye, apparently. He enjoyed a round of golf ever third Sunday of the month, competed in the charity celebrity bake-off every June, and half-walked, half-jogged 5km with his daughter every Saturday morning. He also liked to pay a call-girl to dress up in the same type of school uniform that his daughter wore. But that last little snippet was not to be found on any website that Sherlock had visited. He had obtained that piece of information from the young woman who had sat on his couch, sobbing against his chest while he attempted to comfort her.

And Garvie was a reformed alcoholic. This information could only be as current as two years ago, because according to Rose, his preferences included getting drunk on whiskey, snorting a line or two of coke, and sexually abusing his human sex toy. More whiskey, more coke, perhaps take photos of the aforementioned sex toy in humiliating positions dressed in a school uniform and then pass out. It was the passing out that Rose looked forward to the most. It meant the end of the abuse and the opportunity to delete the photos of herself from the wanker's phone.

Sherlock's homicidal musings were interrupted by a sharp rap on the front door.

Rose? He quickly glanced at his watch. It was just after six, so she was due home at any minute, but of course she wouldn't knock on her own door. Idiot.

Still lost in his own thoughts, Sherlock wrenched open the front door and was momentarily thrown to find a young man standing outside, whose expressions mirrored his own—surprise, followed by suspicion.

Male, early thirties, hair—initially a crew cut, but it's been three weeks since it was last cut. Plain shirt, sports jacket, jeans—all hardly worn. Civilian clothes then because he's clearly a military man, on leave. Deeply tanned. A two year deployment.

In the two seconds it took for Sherlock to deduce the visitor, the young man stuttered out a "Rose? Does Rose... ah... still live here?"

The ex-boyfriend, Sherlock thought with a sinking heart.

"She's at work," he found himself replying. "Should be finished soo—"

At that moment Rose rounded the corner of the stairwell and stopped abruptly at the sight of the two significant men in her life sizing each other up.

Oh fuck, thought Rose. But then she immediately exclaimed, "Jimmy!" to the man nearest her, and quickly embraced the soldier, planting a kiss on his cheek. She swiftly pulled away and glanced nervously at Sherlock.

"Sherlock... James," she said indicating each man in turn.

The soldier and the Consulting Detective briskly shook hands, with James saying, "All right, mate?"

"I thought we were meeting at the pub?" Rose quickly asked.

"Sorry, Rose. That's me taxi downstairs. Me gran's fading fast so I have to catch the train tonight. I just want a quick word if that's all right? I need to have a fag before I get back into the cab. Come downstairs?"

Rose moved towards her door, where Sherlock had stood back a little and had opened it wider.

"Oh, you can smoke..." Rose paused while her eyes quickly scanned her living room. "… out on the balcony," she finished, concluding that her flat was no longer a smoker's haven. "It's a bit wet out."

"Oh, cheers, yeah," James answered, nodding to Sherlock as he followed Rose inside.

Sherlock closed the door behind him, as Rose lead James over to the sliding door to the balcony. She opened it for him, and said, "I'll be out in a sec. Just getting an ashtray."

James said "Cheers," again, lighting up as he disappeared outside. Rose slid the door shut, and hurried over to Sherlock, who she noticed was pulling on his jacket.

She grabbed a surprised Sherlock by his lapels, and perched on her toes, pressing her lips to his. He returned her kiss with a great deal less enthusiasm than she possessed. When she pulled back, she said, "Thank you. You're amazing!"

"What?"

"This. My flat. I can't believe you cleaned up!"

"Oh," Sherlock responded, feeling less like a third wheel now that Rose had kissed him. "Sorry for coming around too early. I didn't realise you already had plans."

"He just rang me an hour ago," Rose gushed. "I thought I was meeting him round the corner for a pint, then I'd have time to come back home and cook you dinner."

"You don't need to cook me dinner."

"I invited you! And you're not leaving!"

Sherlock shot an uncomfortable look toward the balcony. "I... should let you catch up with your... friend."

"No, it's not a catch up. You heard him; his taxi's downstairs. We'll just be a minute," Rose said, speaking quickly because she was nervous about her ex and her current boyfriend being her flat at the same time. And she wasn't even sure if Sherlock was her boyfriend, so there was that. "He probably just wants to check up on me, I bet, because his cousin saw me in the cloakroom of the Rendezvous the other month. Please don't go."

She lightly touched Sherlock's cheek, and fixed him with an encouraging smile.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what this new intense emotion was, but it wasn't pleasant. Here existed a man, not a former client, with whom Rose had had sex—a man she'd shared a bed with, exchanged kisses and cuddles, and probably lay with her head on his bare chest and he never once had to complain about her hair. He was here, standing on Rose's balcony smoking in Sherlock's smoking spot.

He knew there weren't any intense residual feelings left between the pair; he could tell that from their body language. Still, he didn't want to remain in here, while they were out there, on his balcony, not catching up. Sherlock couldn't even busy himself tidying up inside, because he'd already cleaned Rose's flat within an inch of its life.

So he had to leave.

He settled on a solution as he looked past Rose to the kitchen bench. He'd placed Tonya Small's dishes there after he'd washed them.

"I'll just take those back upstairs to Ms Small," he said, indicating the pile with a nod of his head.

Rose glanced around at the kitchen to see what Sherlock was talking about. She turned back to him, looking both puzzled and slightly impressed. "How did you know...?"

"How do I know anything?" he asked, shrugging lightly. "I notice these things."

He gave Rose a half-smile then brushed past her to retrieve the crockery.

"Don't be long," she said sweetly, but Sherlock could detect the underlying nervousness.

She's worried that I'm upset about her ex-boyfriend stopping by, he thought curiously. And she's correct, but I don't know exactly why I am. This man is from her past.

But so is Garvie.

Sherlock's mind travelled the realms of darkness once more and he quickly planted a kiss on Rose's cheek before his expression changed to match his thoughts.

"I won't," he murmured before sweeping out of the flat.


He could hear Ms Small through her door bidding farewell to her darling babies, which puzzled Sherlock momentarily until her door was swung open by a young girl who Sherlock knew lived in the flat next door. She held both Tonya Small's excitable dogs on leashes.

"Oh, excuse me," she said to Sherlock as she squeezed past him.

Sherlock gave a quick knock on the door—the action preventing it from closing. Tonya was sitting on the sofa along a wall adjacent to the door, and she had already looked up in interest when she heard her young neighbour's remark to Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed in delight.

"Oh, no need to get up," Sherlock hastened to say, observing that Tonya had one leg elevated on a foot stool, with a small blanket covering the lower half. "I'm just returning these."

"My darling man, don't be a stranger. You must come in and have a cup of tea."

To Sherlock's surprise, Tonya stood up, bearing an equal amount of weight on both legs. She placed the novel she was reading onto a side-table and fluffed out her hair.

"I don't want to intrude on your leisure time," he said, indicating the Nabokov book.

"Oh, nonsense," she said, reaching out to relieve Sherlock of the crockery. "I've already read it a dozen times." She strode, without any obvious injury, into the kitchen, calling back, "It's the story of my life."

Sherlock glanced at the book title and frowned. Lolita. It meant nothing to him. Although, it may make an interesting read if it was about a cannibal, he mused, and he followed Ms Small to the kitchen.

"Did you... injure your leg?" Sherlock asked tentatively, then immediately kicked himself for discarding the absence of a limp, in favour of having observed Tonya elevating the aforementioned limb, coupled with the requirement to get a neighbour's daughter to walk her dogs for her.

"Mr Holmes, you're losing your touch," Tonya commented, with an accompanying devilish grin. "I'm helping Miranda earn money to buy herself a soccer ball. Her mother said I don't need help walking my babies because I enjoy them so much, so I've feigned an injury just so the dear girl has a reason to help me out."

Sherlock tutted. He hated being wrong, and he loathed making a deduction not based on all the evidence. He should've known better.

Ms Small busied herself organising the tea things as Sherlock looked about, trying to find evidence that Rose may have visited the Clarence House Cannibal.

As if reading his thoughts, Tonya remarked, without turning around, "So you and my Rosebud have reconciled, yes?"

Sherlock tried to analyse the meaning behind Tonya's words. "I wasn't aware Rose and I had anything to reconcile," he said simply.

Tonya turned around and gave him a withering look. "Of course. It's all in Rose's head, the poor darling. You shouldn't feel at all responsible for her torments. Please make yourself comfortable," she finished, gesturing to the tiny kitchen dining table that had, on a monthly basis, been placed in her living room for her poker games.

Her expression and her words were at odds, Sherlock thought, as he reluctantly sat down. Tonya turned back to her tea preparations, but Sherlock was left thinking that perhaps Ms Small was somehow suggesting he should feel responsible.

"How much has Rose confided in you?" he asked with trepidation.

"Why all of it! How else is she going to heal?" Tonya placed the tea cups down onto the table as she spoke. "That under-qualified counsellor had suggested that our darling girl sit in a circle amongst prostitutes and drug addicts and share her experiences dating the most famous detective in all of the United Kingdom. Imagine the scandal!"

Panic took a grip on Sherlock's heart. "Did she talk about me?"

"Not in the group counselling session, darling," Ms Small replied, taking a seat across from Sherlock. "But she needs to talk about you all the same."

"But it's not about me."

Tonya clucked her tongue. "It's about all of you. It has to be, otherwise our beautiful Rose will wilt before our very eyes."

"All of... whom?"

"My darling Mr Holmes," Ms Small said, lacing her fingers together in front of her. "Let me tell you what I think."


Sherlock had calmed down long enough to knock on Rose's door without bashing it in. Rose pulled it open, and chuckled when she saw that it was Sherlock. She hastened back to attend to the omelette that was forming nicely in the frying pan.

"Did you forget your key?" she called back.

Sherlock was thankful he was able to rearrange his features into a look of impassivity. "Yes. It was in my coat," he replied, indicating his Belstaff that lay draped over the back of an armchair. There had been no point in wearing it when he was only going upstairs to the fifth floor.

"You were a while," Rose remarked, with her back to Sherlock.

Sherlock breathed out slowly to steady himself.

"Did she make you a cup of tea?"

"Yes." And she also made me angry.

Sherlock entered the kitchen area and leant against the cabinets, watching Rose pour egg mixture into the frying pan to cook the second omelette. He hadn't spent all that time in Tonya Small's company. He had left part-way through her lecture and had subsequently paced the corridor outside Rose's flat for a good deal longer.

My darling Mr Holmes, let me tell you what I think...

Sherlock tried not to dwell on Tonya's words. He'd get upset again if he did. He just wanted to pull Rose into his arms, hold her in a tight embrace, and say sorry repeatedly.

"Hope you like omelettes," Rose asked, her expression warm and her demeanour much more relaxed. The underlying tension in her mannerisms that Sherlock had observed before he had left earlier, and while her ex-boyfriend was smoking out on the balcony, had completely disappeared.

Sherlock just shrugged and smiled minutely.

"Just eat the salad if it's too much for you," she added, plating up the second omelette. "There. Do you want to bring cutlery over?" she asked, taking both plates to the dining table.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and found himself digging into a kitchen drawer for two knives and two forks. He desperately wanted to bring himself back to the present, but his mind kept dwelling on his conversation with Ms Small.

"How was..." The name had escaped him already.

"James? Fine," Rose replied as they both took their places at the table. "He had heard that I was working in a strip club. Though it didn't take much to reassure him that I was only working as a cloakroom attendant and that I was also employed in two other more respectable establishments. Nice to know he still cares."

"And he never found out that you..." Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to say the words out loud, now that he had been subjected to Tonya's thoughts on the matter.

"That I had sex with men for money? No, not at all."

They ate in silence for a minute or two, with Sherlock delving into his memory banks for anything he had on Rose's boyfriend at the time he was seeing her. He recalled Rose saying that the man had broken up with her because he suspected she was cheating on him. So the army soldier was sharp enough to notice something had been going on while he had been posted abroad. What kind of girlfriend did that make Rose?

Sherlock shook those thoughts loose. Who was he to judge, he thought morosely. He had known that Rose had a boyfriend back then, but all Sherlock was interested in was forcing his paid sex worker to enjoy herself while he fucked her, just to feed his own ego. He remembered them meeting in a coffee shop, Rose fiddling with the pendant that was obviously a present from her boyfriend, and then threatening to have nothing to do with her unless she agreed to his terms. What a bastard he was for not even considering her situation or her feelings. Perhaps Ms Small was right after all.

"… but I was never going to be good enough for his family."

Rose had been elaborating on her relationship with Mr James Dodd, the army corporal, and Sherlock had tuned out.

"They would rather I be the dutiful housewife who stayed at home washing nappies and keeping the hearth warm for when my man returned from his posting."

Sherlock swallowed a particularly crunchy piece of lettuce. He found the omelette too greasy for his palate, and his stomach was already churning oddly, the opinions of Tonya Small sitting undigested there.

"So why couldn't Corporal Dodd support you during your studies?" he asked, while he idly pushed a slice of omelette around. Instead of you having to sell your body to the likes of me?

Rose lay down her fork on the side of her plate, and folded her arms in front of her. "We weren't living together. He would've preferred me to have lived at home with my parents until we were married, and not flat-sharing or studying at all. What would a good wife and mother need of a career anyway? I should've been earning a small amount of pocket money working in a respectable fabric store, like Jimmy's mother did, and the other part of my time devoted to volunteering in Christian charities."

Sherlock placed his own cutlery onto his plate as well, and said calmly, "But instead you found yourself earning fifty pounds a throw, sucking cock in a North London brothel."

It should've come as no surprise that Rose was going to burst into tears at that comment. Subtlety was not Sherlock's specialty, and he was feeling quite bitter after his little chat with The Clarence House Cannibal.

Rose sobbed into her hands as Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, his heart in his mouth.

You idiot, he thought fiercely. He had meant it as a joke, sort of, a throwaway comment, using Rose's sex worker vernacular. Of course, Sherlock now realised that Rose spoke in that manner less frequently these days. He made his way around the table, and placed an arm around her shoulders. Leaning in, he said, "That was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry, Rose."

A day full of tears and apologies, it seemed. But Sherlock was surprised when Rose began trembling, not through tears, but with silent laughter. Such a sudden change in mood confused him and he straightened up, dropping his arm from Rose's shoulders. She lifted her head from her hands and rose from her chair so she could wrap her arms around him.

"I'm the one being stupid," she sniffed, burying her face into his neck.

Sherlock banded his arms around her and held her firmly. Alternating feelings of remorse and self-loathing churned through him, and now he had the added guilt of upsetting Rose through the issuing of another thoughtless comment perched precariously on top.

When Rose drew back, Sherlock furrowed his brow, and studied Rose's tear-stained eyes.

Twining her fingers through Sherlock's curls, she said, "I need you around me to state the obvious sometimes, just to make me get over myself."

Sherlock smiled wanly and remarked, "John always said I had lousy timing though."

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine, really," she said, pressing her forehead against Sherlock's when he bent his head down to hers. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and breathed in apples and pears, her shampoo, and his pulse raced once more.

Rose planted a couple of tiny kisses on his lips, and began gently caressing the nape of his neck as she whispered, "I feel so much better around you. I don't know why I ever thought staying away from you was going to help me heal."

Sherlock's stomach dropped at Rose's use of the same word that Tonya had spoken.

"Was Ms Small helping you heal?" he asked, trying hard to keep the bitterness from creeping back into his words.

Sherlock carefully scrutinised Rose's expression before she responded with a shrug.

"Tonya appears to be a good listener," she began, running her hands down Sherlock's chest and dropping her gaze as she spoke. "But she already has her own opinions about things. It's very hard to convince her otherwise." Rose eyes met Sherlock's again. "I just used her as a sounding board really."

Spoken like a diplomat, Sherlock thought. He had heard most, if not all, of Ms Small's uncensored opinions on the matter, and Rose's apparent friend and neighbour was practically gleeful when informing the detective about that group counselling session.

When Rose began fiddling with Sherlock's shirt buttons, he knew she was uncomfortable about something. He gently placed a hand over one of hers, and she stopped what she was doing and made eye contact with Sherlock again. She knew he was silently prompting her to continue talking, as he had done at Baker Street when she was struggling to tell him about her experiences with Garvie.

"Tonya's fixated on something that happened in a group counselling session I attended," Rose said.

Sherlock tutted and sighed. "I know, Rose," he said softly, interrupting her narrative once he realised the subject matter. "Ms Small told me all about it."

Rose gaped at Sherlock. She was appalled that Tonya had taken it upon herself to tell him about that incident.

"But you know that's not what I think at all!" Rose exclaimed, pulling out of Sherlock's embrace out of frustration.

She's dating an ex-client, Tonya had casually commented about the call-girl Rose had befriended at the end of the group therapy session. So now he's just getting sex for free. She must be delusional not to see that.

At the time, Sherlock had no problems seeing through the comment, and had remarked to Ms Small that he and Rose did not have a 'sex worker and client' relationship anymore. The Clarence House Cannibal had clucked her tongue again, and then sought to enlighten Sherlock about what her own research had uncovered.

Ms Small had taken an interest in Rose's breakdown and her subsequent trouble in acknowledging her previous occupation, so the older woman began researching what she could do to help her young friend. In doing so, she came upon a group who called themselves The Anti-SeXXploitation Project, or The ASXX. The group existed to raise awareness of what they called a spectrum of abuse against women, which included those in the adult entertainment industry. Quite simply, Tonya had told Sherlock, if men weren't prepared to demand and purchase sex, there would be no call for prostitutes.

"You, Mr Holmes, you and men like that hideous MP Mr Garvie, have decided that it is perfectly acceptable to use women for your own sexual gratification. Whether or not the sex is consensual, and the prostitute believes they are working in the sex industry by choice, prostitution is an exploitation of women by men. It is not valid occupation. It is not work, and women should not see it as a means to survive. It is you who are perpetuating a long established practice of violence against women. You exploited the fact that Rose needed the money. You are no better than Mr Garvie, in my opinion."

It was then that Sherlock icily thanked Ms Small for the tea, and stormed out of her flat, his heart beating furiously. For once his wits failed him, for he had been shocked into silence. He was unable to go back to Rose's flat at that point. He needed to take the time to process Ms Small's words and to calm the fuck down. He barely managed the latter, and still had a long way to go on the former.

Sherlock was somehow grateful that Ms Small had not introduced Rose to the principles of The ASXX just yet. Before launching into her full tirade against men like Sherlock, Tonya had said that once Rose had gained back her self-confidence, she would then talk to her about the bigger picture.

Over my dead body, Sherlock had thought at the time.

Ms Small's words continued to swim around Sherlock's head. Rose was leaning against the kitchen bench and had crossed her arms in front of her. Sherlock could tell she was fuming about Tonya taking liberties with telling Sherlock about the incident at the group counselling session. That was the least of his worries.

"I don't see you as a prostitute anymore," he said tiredly. "I've said that before."

"I know," Rose said, reaching out and grasping Sherlock's hand, gently pulling him toward her. "And I definitely don't think of you as a client."

But Sherlock still felt ill at ease. He didn't care for Ms Small's under-handed comment about the call-girl that was really directed at him and Rose. It was the bigger picture that had gutted him.

Perhaps he shouldn't have viewed Rose as a prostitute at all. Ever. He should never have gone to a brothel, should never have offered her an enticing sum of money to visit him in Baker Street, nor compelled her to lower her defences and experience sex with him as an equal partner, for there was no such thing according to Tonya and the ASXX.

Was he really no better than John Garvie?

You were a gentleman. You respected me, Rose had once said, and Sherlock had believed it, embraced it, in fact. Were Rose's views so slanted that it took a monster to make Sherlock look comparatively respectful?

"Don't worry about what Tonya says," Rose said softly, unaware of Sherlock's internal battle. "Why are we listening to her opinions anyway? She has a fetish for eating people."

Rose broke into a chuckle, and she wound her arms around Sherlock's neck again. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and tightly embraced her.

Fuck you, Tonya Small, John Garvie, and the rest of the fucking world for making me believe I don't deserve this, Sherlock thought, fuming in silence. This. Whatever this is.

.


UPDATE 13th Jan 2016: This chapter has been edited to be consistent with changes made to chapter 1..