Chapter 30 - I'm Faking Opinions and It's Exhausting

Every surface of Rose's body tingled with delight as Sherlock curled his around hers, kissing her softly about her neck and shoulders.

"Happy birthday," his voice rumbled again.

"You've said that about a hundred times already," Rose laughed. She turned her head, so Sherlock could press one of his tantalising kisses to her lips.

"Just making sure you got the message," he replied, before sighing and resting his head back onto the pillow.

His arms remained firmly around Rose as she shuffled backwards into him, wanting to feel warmed by his entire body. This was the longest post-coital cuddle she had ever shared with Sherlock while they were awake.

"I haven't had my birthday all to myself in over ten years," she murmured. "My friends used to wish me a happy birthday as an afterthought, well after midnight, when they were already tanked. Really took the shine off my special day. And on New Year's Day itself, they were too tired or hung-over to want to come out to dinner with me."

"So where shall I take you today?" Sherlock asked. "I have a few more bolt holes around the city. When was the last time you were in Kew Gardens? Or there's the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery."

Sherlock loosened his hold on Rose when he felt her turning around to face him. She chuckled lightly in response to his suggestions.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said, reaching up to cup his cheek. "It's been wonderful. You don't have to do anything else for me. Besides, I actually have a lot on today."

Sherlock frowned in mock disappointment. He actually had a few things he was itching to start himself.

"Why, what are you up to?" he asked.

"I usually help Billy serve up breakfast to whoever is in his house on New Year's Day, then Mum's taking me out for a birthday afternoon tea."

"Billy?" Sherlock asked, wondering where he'd heard the name before.

"My friend, Billy. You remember... the guy who supplies me with my weed?"

"Oh," Sherlock remarked, stealing an eyeroll when Rose looked away. "That Billy."

"So I have to shop for breakfast supplies, then take them over there. Billy sort of looks after people who..." Rose paused for a moment, trying to find appropriate words for the service Billy actually provided. "...need a place to stay for a night or two. We fry up bacon and eggs and sausages. Maybe hash browns and baked beans, too." Rose smiled and couldn't resist kissing Sherlock's downturned mouth. "You can come too if you like?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, rolling away from Rose and sitting up.

Sherlock's sudden burst of energy came as no surprise to Rose, and she rarely took offense these days when his attention was directed away from her.

"What will you be doing?" she asked, pulling over the pillow Sherlock had abandoned, and hugging it to her.

Sherlock grabbed at his boxers and drew them on before standing up. He turned to Rose and said, with a twinkle in his eye, "I've got a wedding to plan!"


Rose was standing by Sherlock's living room window, looking out onto the street when Sherlock returned from his shower.

"What are you looking at?" he asked as he grabbed the kettle to fill with water. He realised it had just boiled, so he placed it back down onto its holder.

"I'm looking for photographers—paparazzi," she replied.

"Where?" Sherlock asked, striding across the room to join her.

"I don't think there are any now, but Mrs Hudson mentioned the other day that sometimes there are one or two out there. You're some kind of celebrity you know." Rose turned away from the window as Sherlock scowled at the street below. "I don't want to be photographed leaving here," she continued. "Imagine what nosy reporters would find out about me if they had a mind to. There's no one out there now, so I should go while it's early."

Sherlock left the window to give Rose her goodbye hug. She embraced him tightly, whispering, "Thank you for giving me the best New Year's Eve and birthday present ever."

Rose eased back from her hug, allowing Sherlock to capture her mouth in his. He had made her very happy, he could see that, and he hadn't anticipated how warming he would find such a seemingly selfless act.


"You're back!"

"Ah, John, good," Sherlock responded, looking up from his laptop. "Just the man I wanted to see. I've made a list of twenty-one suitable venues, and am just about to conduct a background check into half a dozen photographers. I know a quaint rabbi who also doubles as a fire-eater, so that's the ceremony and entertainment taken care of. Now I need a list of—"

"Sherlock, wait! Slow down!" John called out in a panic. "We just came 'round to visit Mrs Hudson and wish her a Happy New Year. Mary and I didn't even know you were back. As some of us are slightly more hung-over than others, can we hold off on the wedding planning for a while?"

"What? But I've already made progress."

John sighed deeply, then cleared his throat. "Firstly, Mary and I aren't Jewish, so I don't think a rabbi will be appropriate."

Sherlock looked momentarily wounded. "I thought you wanted a church wedding. Church, synagogue... they all have... steeples."

John sank into his chair and drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm. He drew in a deep breath in order to calm himself, then he leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Look, Sherlock... ah, mate," he said eventually. "Mary and I will make a list of things that we need organised, and will let you know which of those you can do for us."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, regarding his friend with suspicion. "That's what you said before Christmas. It's now New Year's Day. Several weeks have gone by and nothing's been done. I've been in Tibet, so I have the perfect excuse. What have you been doing all this time, Doctor Watson?"

"Did you go to the tailor to get measured for your suit?"

"I emailed them before I left."

John frowned. Of course Sherlock would do everything his way. "You took your measurements yourself?"

"I know my measurements. I only have to glance in the mirror—"

The sound of light footsteps hastening upstairs caught both men's attention, and it was a welcome relief to John when his fiancée entered the room.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," Mary said affectionately, walking over and gracing the detective with a kiss on the forehead. "Mrs Hudson said you were back from Tibet, but she thought you'd gone away again for a few days on a case."

"I... snuck back in during the early hours of this morning," Sherlock hastily replied.

"Ah, Sherlock was just asking about the..." John paused to clear his throat as Mary perched herself on the arm of her fiancé's chair. "… ah wedding plans. You know—churches and stuff?" He looked up at Mary, hoping his expression would signal panic stations.

But Mary raised her eyebrows, feigning excitement. "Oh! Wonderful. Okay, well, Sherlock. You like lists and things. Why don't you make a list of everything that needs to be done and run it by us."

"What?" John exclaimed, looking up at Mary in surprise.

Sherlock reached down by his side to a folder that was leaning against his chair, pulled out a sheaf of paper, and handed it to Mary.

"Oh," she remarked, running her eyes down quite a comprehensive list, before turning the sheet over to discover that it too, was full. "Okay," she murmured as she rose from her perch, still studying the list. "So you've grouped it according to timings... I like it. Hmm, twelve months before, we should've done..."

Sherlock looked at John and raised his eyebrows. John scowled.

"We've only just got engaged," John commented.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "and you only allowed six months to organise everything. As it's now January, you have just under five months, if you still want your spring wedding. All you've managed to choose so far is the best man."

"And I'm having second thoughts about that decision already," John muttered.

"Okay, great," Mary said, turning around and handing the page back to Sherlock, having ignored their exchange. "I'm happy for you to make a start on that."

"What!" exclaimed an exasperated John.

"Oh, John," said Mary, softly. "Here, you can make a start too. Let's see... You can organise..." Mary looked over Sherlock's shoulder as both she and the detective carefully scrutinised the list.

They both said, simultaneously to John, "The photographer."


"Happy birthday, Rosie," Billy said, beaming, as he reached down to relieve Rose of the grocery bags. "Come in. I've made you summin'."

Rose followed Billy into the rundown building that once served as a college in Canning Town's outskirts. Rose wasn't sure if Billy actually owned the severely decayed building, or if he and his transient friends were just squatters. She had never bothered to find out, despite Billy having lived there, in East London, for years now.

At the very back of the college, on the ground floor, was a massive kitchen that Billy said must have been for catering students. One of his friends had managed to salvage a stove top that they hooked up to gas bottles acquired from around Newham. Rose felt it was best not to ask too many questions about the origins of some of the new additions that appeared now and then in the house.

For her birthday present, Billy presented Rose with a small wooden pipe that he had learnt how to carve from a guy who ran an online weed paraphernalia shop.

"Now y'don' have ta worry 'bout rollin' so much," Billy told her in all earnestness.

Rose hugged Billy tightly, and thanked him for such a thoughtful present. They then set about cooking up their breakfast bonanza, probably their biggest yet. Billy said he had nine "friends" who had stayed the night, with three of them having stayed the entire week since Christmas.

"'ere's our first customer now," Billy joked, waving a spatula toward the door as Rose was opening a packet of paper plates.

"Hi," she said, smiling amiably to the young man who had entered the kitchen. "I'm Rose."

The newcomer shook Rose's proferred hand, but seemed to have a bit of trouble deciding what to say in response.

"What's your name?" Rose prompted him.

"Ah, Isaac, miss."

"Nice to meet you, Isaac. Take a seat. Can I get you some eggs?"


Sherlock was frantically pacing about Rose's living room, muttering to himself, while she was folding her washing on the dining table.

"No, there's only one thing for it—the venue will have to come first. Everything else hinges on that."

"What's that?" Rose asked, noticing Sherlock's furrowed brow and manic disposition.

"The venue," he repeated, stopping in front of her. "The cake, the flowers, and the wedding invitations all have to somehow match the bridesmaids' outfits, and I can't let them choose the colour of the fabric until Mary and John settle on a venue."

Rose smiled to herself over Sherlock's seemingly self-appointed role as overseer of all decisions wedding related.

"I'll have to narrow it down," he muttered to himself again.

Rose went back to her folding, which she found quite difficult as Sherlock had remained near her and had shut his eyes while he gestured widely with his hands as if he were swatting away annoying insects, all the while murmuring, "Unsuitable, unsuitable, out of budget, too small, too... old..."

"Ow, Sherlock!" Rose exclaimed after she was smacked in the side of the head by Sherlock's last dismissive gesture. "Go away!"

"This is important, Rose!" he responded irritably, walking over to an armchair and sinking into it. He held his head in his hands, rattled off a couple more venue names before suddenly standing and exclaiming, "Sutton Mallet! It's perfect!"

Rose sighed in relief, but her moment of serenity was short-lived when Sherlock strode by and said, "Come on, Rose!"

"What?"

Sherlock disappeared into her bedroom, rifled around a bit, then emerged holding a pair of jeans, an undershirt, a pair of knickers and one of Rose's bras. He scrutinised the pile of tops Rose had neatly folded on the table, then discarded the top two before thrusting the third and the rest of the clothes he held into Rose's chest.

"Here. Get dressed, and hurry up."

"What?"

"We've got to go!" he said forcefully, grabbing his great coat from the back of an armchair, and drawing it around himself.

When Rose remained where she was standing, holding an armful of clothing and wearing a puzzled expression, Sherlock descended on her. He spun her around and almost shoved her in the direction of the bathroom.

"We need to catch the train. You said you wanted to help me. As it's an hour out of London, we have to be there and back before your shift tonight."

"That's... thoughtful of you to consider my needs," Rose murmured.

She was about to disappear into the bathroom before Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Wait!" He bent over Rose and inhaled deeply.

"Sherlock," Rose began, feeling slightly disconcerted.

"No. You smell fine. You don't need a shower," he said, pulling Rose toward her bedroom.

"What? Yes, I do. Anyway, why do you need me for this? You should be going with John and Mary."

Sherlock grabbed the pile of clothes from Rose and dumped them onto her bed. He then tugged at her dressing gown sash while saying, "I need to confirm it in my own mind before I present them with my decision. There's no point giving them a number of options to choose from, because John will act like he's drowning. I've already wasted a couple of weeks doing that." Sherlock went to open Rose's dressing gown but she batted his hand away. Sherlock stepped back from Rose, allowing her to disrobe. "I need you because you're a... woman," he continued, gesturing at Rose, who now stood naked before him.

"You're very, very observant," Rose joked. "But now you're sounding sexist."

"I'm not being sexist," Sherlock said, picking up Rose's bra and approaching her, holding out the article in front of him. Rose snatched it from him. "I momentarily forgot what I was talking about when confronted with your ... body. That's never happened before. Look, Rose. I just need a second opinion, however inferior."

Rose tutted and shot him a look. Sherlock remained oblivious as he handed Rose her knickers.

"I can get dressed myself," she hissed.

"Barely," Sherlock muttered as he exited the room. "Hurry up!" he called back.

Five minutes later, Rose found herself hastening half a step behind Sherlock as he strode along Craven Hill.

"The tube is back this way," Rose called out breathlessly behind him.

"Newbury is west out of London. We have to get to Paddington not Bayswater."

Rose decided there was no point in telling Sherlock right now that she was reluctant to be seen with him. She could barely keep up him, and when they boarded the train, the carriage was mostly full, so they sat apart for a good half hour anyway. When the carriage began to clear a little, Sherlock changed seats.

"St Mary's Church," he began, showing Rose his phone screen. "And there's a nice little B&B nearby that boasts a function room, just out of Newbury, in a village called Sutton Mallet. They do catering, too. And well within John and Mary's budget."

"They gave you a budget to stick to?"

Sherlock's mouth teased into a smile. "I may have looked at both their bank balances."


Rose thought they'd never reach their destination, but a quick ten minute trip by coach out of Newbury saw them in a small laneway in front of the Bed & Breakfast Sherlock had shown her on his phone. Sherlock seemed to know where he was going, and Rose was just about to query that fact when he remarked, "Just how it looks on Google Street view."

He lead them around the building and confidently strode up to the door and tried the lock.

"Um, Sherlock, this isn't reception," Rose said, gesturing to another entranceway behind her.

"I know. This is the function room. Just taking a look before I bother anybody."

"But..." Rose protested feebly as the door, obviously not locked, swung inwards when Sherlock pushed on it.

The room was dusty and disused, but had a warm glow about it. The walls were painted a sunny yellow adorned with green vines winding their way upwards toward the tall ceiling.

"Oh," Rose gasped in awe. "Do you think it's still used as a function room?"

"It's unused during winter," Sherlock informed her, striding in. "They can't keep it adequately heated, but it's available again in spring."

Sherlock looked about with a critical eye, while Rose walked over to one set of french doors. She wiped aside some of the thick dust on the glass, and peered out into the formal winter garden.

"Kitchen's through there," Sherlock added, as if he were the tour guide. "It's everyday use is for the staff and guests, but it becomes a fully operational professional kitchen when they cater for functions in here."

"How do you know all this?" Rose asked, turning from the doors.

Sherlock held up his phone and waved it at her. "Research, Rose. What did you think I was doing for the entire one hour train journey here?"

Ignoring me, Rose thought.

Rose kept out of Sherlock's way as he snapped photos of the room from several different angles.

"Now," Sherlock continued, looking the full length of the room. He held out his arms, pointing to the far end. "Bridal table there, with the gift table against the wall." He looked on either side of him, narrowing his eyes in thought, before he strode the length of the room once more and peered underneath a drop cloth at the furniture that was stored there. "Round tables," he murmured to himself. "So, six, seven, or eight of those, possibly seating eight to ten guests. Depends on John and Mary and the list of guests they're currently arguing over." He spun about, then slowly strolled to the middle of the room, his fingertips steepled to his lips, deep in thought. He about-turned and paused as Rose made her way toward him.

"Come here a minute," he said softly, holding out his hand to Rose.

"What for?" she asked tentatively.

He continued holding out his hand, until Rose took it, then Sherlock hooked his other arm gently behind her back. That could only mean one thing.

Sherlock eyed his companion with suspicion. "Do you know how to waltz?"

Rose grinned guiltily. "Er... no."

Sherlock tutted. "Well that's obvious," he commented, readjusting Rose's hand positions, and putting a gap between them. "Firstly, it's not sex. I shouldn't be feeling your breasts pressed up against me."

Rose laughed lightly. "Why do you want to dance with me right now?"

"Road testing. Are you ready? Just follow me."

"But, Sherlock, I―"

Sherlock took a step forward, and so did Rose, causing her to almost knee him in the groin.

"Christ, Rose! What are you doing?"

"You said to follow you!"

"I'm not a mirror! I guide you. If I move forward, you take a step backward. It's not rocket science."

Rose laughed in frustration. Sherlock scowled in frustration.

"If you're not going to take it seriously..." he began, but he was immediately distracted by the sound of footsteps approaching from along the corridor. "Time for negotiations," he remarked, dropping his arms from around Rose and making his way to the exit. He shot back, "One hour per day, every day, for the next four months―dance lessons with me. You definitely need them."

"Why do I have to dance with you anyway," Rose murmured.

Sherlock paused mid-stride. Turning to Rose he said matter-of-factly, "Because you're my plus one."


Sherlock was distracted with his phone once more, but Rose spent the train journey home with an uncomfortable churning in her gut.

She didn't want to go to the wedding. The possibility of being a guest had never even crossed her mind. Sherlock had been almost obsessively researching and planning for the wedding for the two weeks since New Year's Day, and Rose had found it all mildly amusing. Not once did she even have a yearning to attend. This was possibly up there with the worse things that could happen to her this year—attend John Watson's wedding as Sherlock's date, with John knowing that she was once a prostitute who had been hired by Sherlock. Perhaps John would still think she was a paid sex worker and was even on the clock when Sherlock decided to bring her to his best friend's wedding.

And then there was the drunken sex she'd almost had with the groom.

She didn't know how to broach the subject with Sherlock. After he'd mentioned the idea to her, he was then busy liaising with the Functions Manager at the Sutton Mallet B&B. Sherlock was almost buzzing with excitement when they left the village. He immediately began texting both John and Mary, sending them the photos he took and a list of costs associated with hiring the venue, the catering, and a special discount for guests choosing to stay overnight.

"Everything else can be organised now," he said to Rose on the train. "Look, this will be the colour of the bridesmaids' dresses." Sherlock had changed the settings on his phone so that the colours were inverted. The yellow walls of the function room were now a light purple in his photos.

"This shade of lilac," he announced proudly. "In direct contrast to the reception room décor. The bridesmaids' dress colour will pop!"

"Oh," Rose commented, disinterestedly. "That's clever."

Rose listened while Sherlock spoke alternately to John then to Mary. Poor John, she thought. It was obvious that the doctor had handed the phone to his fiancée when Sherlock was clearly frustrated that the couple hadn't finalised the guest list.

"Mary, I need that list," Sherlock said vehemently. "Don't forget that some person unknown to us kidnapped your fiancé and stashed him in a log pile. Someone clearly wants him dead. You need me to veto the guest list. I have to do background checks on everyone associated with the wedding, and that will take time. John can't invite Great Aunt Marjorie if she turns out to be an axe-wielding maniac."

Sherlock ended the call with a satisfied grin on his face. Rose concluded that Mary had acquiesced.

The man gets his own way with everyone, Rose thought, reflecting on the fake charming persona he had assumed when talking to the Sutton Mallet Functions Manager. He can't get his own way with me coming to the wedding. I just can't go.


Sherlock was miffed that Rose was reluctant to visit him in Baker Street these days. He knew her hesitance to be connected to the famous Sherlock Holmes was based on a valid fear—that some semi-competent journalist would seek out her past and therefore uncover her previous occupation. Still, the knowledge did little to quell his feelings of rejection.

Rose had insisted that Sherlock was still welcome to come to her flat, at anytime, day or night, as long as he was careful that he wasn't followed.

"Why can't you be careful that you're not being followed?" he'd asked Rose, not understanding that not everyone possessed his skills in stealthily navigating the city streets.

He could detect an underlying sadness within her, that had grown since mid-January. He thought he'd made her happy with her birthday surprise, but he concluded that he couldn't ride on that wave forever.

It was toward the end of January, when Sherlock had had enough of John and Mary's guest list arguments. It was finally agreed upon that partners were invited only if they were clearly stated on the invitation. No invitations would be sent with a guest's name plus the vague wording, "and guest." This meant the Mrs Hudson's invitation, for example, would explicitly state, "Ms Martha Hudson and Mr Champak Chatterjee," with the landlady's approval of course. But John's cousin, whose husband was unknown to the doctor, would receive an invitation with her name on it only. John and Mary figured that if it was a good enough directive for the royal family, then it was good enough for them.

Rose had used this decision as an opportunity to bring up her casual invitation to the wedding, telling Sherlock that he himself wouldn't receive an invitation anyway, since he was part of the bridal party, and therefore she couldn't be his plus one. Sherlock informed Rose that he was adding her name to the guest list, and that she would receive her own invitation. After all, he was in charge of getting the damn things printed. Everybody else close to John and Mary would be bringing a partner, so why couldn't he, Sherlock had reasoned.

Again, Rose had to think of another way to tell Sherlock she would not attend the wedding.

Rose was due to work a later shift at the strip club on Friday night, because her counterpart was away holidaying in Spain, so Rose let Sherlock know that she would get a lift back to Baker Street. She also had an early shift at the entertainment store the next morning, so she was in for a very short night there.

When she arrived just before 2am, she found Sherlock still awake and constructing something in his living room.

"A scale model of the reception venue," he told Rose, after she had greeted him and stood puzzling over his cardboard project. "We're having trouble working out where the dance floor can go with so many tables crowding the floor. I'm thinking while everyone is standing around at the bridal party end watching John and Mary cut the cake, the catering staff can clear away the tables and store them on the far side, giving us a dance floor." Sherlock tutted, then murmured, "But we still need a spot for the DJ."

"Well, I'm far too tired for such decision making," Rose said, almost yawning as if to add further proof to her statement. "I'll be off to bed."

Rose put her arm around Sherlock's shoulders while he remained seated at his living room table. He looked up at her expectantly, and placed his arm around her waist.

"I won't be far behind," he replied, pleasantly.

Rose bent down, pressing a long, soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. He would've liked to have kept her there, the arousal caused by her warm mouth drizzling slowly throughout his body. But Rose straightened up and said, "I'm sure I'll be fast asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow."

Her heavy-lidded eyes displayed the truth behind her words, the Consulting Detective deduced. A less experienced detective may have mistaken her look for sultriness.

Rose dropped her arm from Sherlock's shoulders as he did from her waist. He gently threaded his fingers through hers and replied, "If you're asleep, I won't wake you. There's always the morning."

Rose returned Sherlock's affectionate smile with one of her own, lightly squeezed his fingers, then left him for the bedroom.

With a pang of regret, Sherlock watched Rose walk away from him. He knew she was exhausted. She had been spending every waking minute working at one of her three jobs, only two of them earning her an income. She needed the crisis centre work, she had said, to help her gain entry into the Forensic Psychology course later in the year. She had to volunteer enough hours there before they would even consider allowing her to counsel anybody, and it would be the number of hours she spent in counselling sessions that would count as a prerequisite for entering her course. Rose had a long way to go in that respect.

And she needed two income paying jobs, so she could save enough in order to study, when she would have less time to work.

Sherlock wished she would accept his help, financial or otherwise. There was John's old room upstairs, vacant, if she needed a place to stay with little or no rent. Sherlock would happily support her while she studied. He knew she wouldn't want that—something about the situation replicating their old arrangement of paying her to have sex with him, Sherlock surmised.

He leant back in his chair, mental exhaustion overtaking him at last. He could neither solve the mystery of where to place the DJ, nor how to help Rose and make her happy again. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, resting his forehead in one hand, before he stood, ready to retire as well. When he entered his bedroom, he found Rose just as he expected to find her―fast asleep.


"Sherlock, no, I'm late already!"

She was protesting playfully, Sherlock concluded from Rose's tone. So he was still in with a chance. He could've kicked himself, though; he had slept in and so had Rose. But now she was going to be late for work and he had a raging erection. How to solve this little puzzle?

Sherlock had snuggled into her—they had both slept naked—but Rose had roused fully and had checked her phone that lay on Sherlock's bedside table, before they had even commenced any hanky-panky. And now she was out of bed, and halfway to the bathroom before Sherlock knew what was happening.

He sat up slowly, his mind hatching a plan where he would ring his brother, tell him that a network of terrorists had been keeping their supplies at Rose's entertainment store and were planning to ship them out that very morning. Before Rose had even taken one foot outside his flat, Sherlock was fully confident that his brother could get the Security Services to surround the building, thus making it impossible for Rose to get to work.

Hang on, he thought, his mind busily trying to patch up the holes that riddled his plan. He didn't even want Rose to get dressed, let alone take any steps toward freedom. He had to act quickly.

"Where's my phone?" he called out.

But Rose couldn't hear him, because she was already in the shower. Sherlock brooded for a moment. Time was of the essence. He stood, and hovered in the doorway of his ensuite.

"There's been a terrorist threat to the London Underground," he said to Rose, who was washing her hair.

"What?" she shouted over the cascading water.

"Terrorist threat," Sherlock repeated a little louder. He had never watched Rose taking a shower before, except for that time in the brothel, and even then he had turned his back on her because he was embarrassed. He was going to do no such thing this morning. Plus she was putting on a bit of a show, he was sure of it. Surely her hair didn't require that much scalp massaging? The elevation of her arms lifted her breasts a little, making them perkier, Sherlock observed, tilting his head to one side. He scrutinised her further, and in an entirely scientific way of course, he noted how the water droplets took their time pooling, caressing and sliding sensuously along the curves of—

"Which stations?" Rose called out, abruptly halting Sherlock's scientific observations.

"Sorry, what?"

"Which stations are closed?"

"Er... from here to... ah... there," Sherlock replied, his voice rasping slightly.

Rose laughed, and pushed open the shower door a little. "Sorry, I can't hear properly."

"Ah... Westminster, to... wherever you work."

Rose closed the door and chuckled again. "I'll catch a cab then."

"No cabs sorry. Just noticed there was a massive recall on all sparkplugs used in black cabs in the Greater London area. Looks like you're stuck here for the day."

Rose pushed the door open again. "Why don't you come in? I know you want to."

"You know no such thing. And anyway, what a ridiculous idea. There isn't any room for both of us to wash ourselves."

"You'd be surprised what we can do in here. Come on," she beckoned, stretching out a hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled, but relented anyway, allowing Rose to guide him into the shower stall.

Stupid idea, he thought. Just wait until Rose complains that she can't move about. What's she trying to do—conserve water?

"Now we're killing two birds with one stone," Rose said, lathering the soap in her hands before massaging the suds into Sherlock's chest. "I needed to have a shower and you needed my assistance."

"I don't..." Sherlock began, a curious sensation sweeping through him, "ah... need you to bathe me."

"I'm not talking about bathing you," Rose whispered, her lathered hands navigating lower still. "I'm talking about the very personal attention you were seeking." Rose nibbled Sherlock's throat as his breathing became ragged. "Firstly, it's not a waltz," she murmured. "So you should feel my breasts pressed up against you." One hand stole lower, and Sherlock sighed as Rose ended the torment.

Rose is a genius, Sherlock thought, his lips gliding along her neck and jaw as he held her close. Fictional terrorist plots and inoperative taxis disappeared from his mind. Why didn't I think of this?


Rose hastened to the top of the steps of the tube station and out onto Baker Street. Her eyes quickly scanned the street on both sides, and up ahead toward Sherlock's flat. She didn't notice anybody loitering, no one pretending to read newspapers while peering surreptitiously over the top, so she deemed the area to be free of celebrity stalkers. Sherlock Holmes was probably old news now, she thought, as she strode purposefully toward number 221.

In her haste to relieve Sherlock of his burden this morning, and quickly dress herself for work, Rose had left her mobile phone behind. She felt naked without it, but was able to get away shortly after lunch and had just enough time to make a quick trip to Baker Street and back.

With a couple more furtive glances stolen in both directions along the street, Rose unlocked the front door and swiftly entered the building. Sherlock had told her that his day entailed visiting the florist, a jeweller, and the tailor, then dropping by John's clinic to show the betrothed couple the latest design for the wedding invitations. So Rose expected his flat to be empty, and she would only be in and out herself, since she was required back at work by 2pm.

Ignoring the half-opened living room door at the top of the stairs, Rose immediately hastened through the doorway leading to the kitchen. The door creaked a little when she pushed it open wider. As she strode toward the back of the kitchen, she heard a ruffle of paper, then a crash, sounding as if several files had tumbled from the living room table to the floor. The was a loud tut followed by muttered swearing.

Still faffing about with his scale model, Rose thought, smiling to herself. "Just getting my phone, don't worry!" she called out to Sherlock as she continued into his bedroom. She recalled their morning's activities with smug satisfaction. She was glad she could still introduce Sherlock to new experiences. He had learnt a lot during their time together, but sometimes he still seemed like an innocent virgin.

Rose immediately spied her forgotten phone on Sherlock's bedside table. Retrieving it, she swiftly navigated through her missed calls and messages, slowly emerging from the room as footsteps made their way from the living room and stopped at the doorway to the kitchen. Rose went to glance up as she hastily typed a reply to her irate mother. She remarked to the detective, "You distracted me this morning, you naughty—"

But the person who hovered in the doorway, and looked at Rose with an expression of curiosity mixed with mild amusement was not the Consulting Detective. This woman was much shorter than Rose's lover, and had straight blonde hair, in sharp contrast to Sherlock's dark, curly locks.

"You're... not Sherlock," Rose remarked unnecessarily.

"No," said Mary Morstan, folding her arms in front of her, and a faint smile gracing her features. "I'm not."

.


Author's Notes:

Mary! [snigger]

As a lot of the suburban exterior shots in the show are actually filmed in Wales, I had to find a suitable London area to pose as the location for Billy's drug house. I had already researched Canning Town for my other fic, so why not use it twice! I thought I'd read somewhere that the building was a college, so I kept that idea, plus, when Mary parks the car, it looks like she's in a vacant car park. Making it an old college would give a reason why there'd be a carpark adjacent to it.

The location of the wedding as written on the wedding invitation is Sutton Mallet, which is actually in Somerset in the west of England and a good 4 hours by train from London according to Google maps. I think the filming was done in Bristol, which is still a couple of hours away. So I've taken enormous liberties and geographically moved it to Berkshire, just out of Newbury. I mean, look how casually Sherlock and Mrs Hudson sat and discussed tea and biscuits on the morning of John and Mary's wedding when they should've been high-tailing it to Somerset in time for a noon wedding. Would've made more sense for them to have travelled the day before and stayed two nights, before and after the wedding. Madness! With me putting the wedding in Berkshire, they only have to travel for an hour or so.

The invitation (if you freeze-frame Sherlock's flashback) also states that the wedding is on the 18th of May, which is consistent with Mary saying in TEH that they wanted a spring wedding. John's blog says August, but I don't know why that is. I'm ignoring that date because it doesn't make sense.

And Sherlock "left the wedding early." Where was he going, so far away from London? Now that I've moved the wedding venue, you'll get to see just where he goes... next chapter! Stag night, writing the wedding speech and (parts of) the actual wedding, if I manage to get there. Obviously I won't be writing huge slabs of the show's dialogue.. just snippets here and there where necessary, as I usually do.

But Mary meets Rose! Fun times!