Chapter 31 - I Can Tell When You're Fibbing

"I...um..." Rose said, vaguely waving her phone in front of her.

"Left your phone behind," the blonde woman finished for her, still smiling pleasantly. Additionally she raised an eyebrow, prompting Rose to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Yes," Rose said, laughing awkwardly.

Rose recognised this woman; her photo was on the wall above Sherlock's couch. The bride-to-be.

Rose tried to quell her rising fear, and her smile froze on her face. "You must be Mary," she said, walking toward Sherlock's visitor. She offered her hand and added, "I'm Rose."

Mary's smiled widened, and she returned Rose's handshake firmly, before tilting her head slightly. "I don't think I've heard Sherlock mention you before, Rose," Mary said.

Rose could feel a warm heat spreading across her cheeks. Although Mary's expression was light and pleasant, there was something about her penetrating gaze that Rose found disconcerting.

"It's... because... he doesn't like to draw too much attention to me," she replied.

"Oh? Why's that?" Mary asked gently, and Rose noticed that the woman's eyes flickered behind her toward Sherlock's bedroom. "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

Oh, God, Rose thought. She knows I found my phone in Sherlock's room.

"I...ah... he doesn't..." Rose's throat felt constricted. She had no choice; she had to maintain the same lie she had already told Sherlock's landlady, even though Sherlock hadn't been impressed at the time. "He doesn't want people to know he's seeing a therapist... a counsellor, really. I'm not actually qualified, yet."

"A therapist?" Mary repeated.

Rose could hear the incredulity in Mary's voice, so she scrambled for details. "We keep it quite casual... I knew him years ago, before he—" She paused, unable to speak so bluntly about Sherlock's fall from the rooftop, however she noted that Mary's expression had softened, understanding the subject matter under discussion. "I was a psychology student back then, and I was researching his cases in regard to the criminal psyche. Well, anyway, since he returned from abroad, he finds it... therapeutic, I guess, to talk to me about... some issues he has."

"I see."

"But he doesn't want people to know," Rose gushed. "Especially John. You know, his mind is the most important part of him, and he'd hate for John—well, anyone really—to think that there's something wrong with his mind."

"Of course," Mary agreed, smiling briefly. "His secret is safe with me."

Rose heaved a sigh in relief. "Well, I'd best be going," she said, moving toward the kitchen door to the landing. "I just dashed out during my lunch break."

"It was lovely meeting you, Rose."

"All the best with the wedding," Rose said, smiling amiably at Mary.

Rose resisted the urge to sprint downstairs, although her heart was hammering in her chest. That was a close call. It could've been John who was waiting to see Sherlock. I can't keep coming here like this, nor tell lies to all and sundry about Sherlock's supposed mental health issues.

As if her nerves weren't already shot, she reached the bottom of the staircase just as the front door to the street opened along the passageway in front of her. She halted abruptly by the last step, not daring to breathe and wishing she could disappear into the floor.

"Rose!" Sherlock exclaimed, his expression brightening at the sight of her.

Rose didn't inhale again until Sherlock had closed the door behind him, confirming for her that John Watson wasn't accompanying him. Sherlock's face fell upon noticing Rose's expression.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" Sherlock said urgently, striding toward her.

"Oh, I... ah... forgot my phone," Rose replied, keeping her voice low, and once again feebly holding out her mobile as evidence. "Just left work to get it, so I can't stay."

"Not even for a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked suggestively, before enveloping Rose in his arms. He bent his head low and murmured into her ear, "And biscuits?" He pressed his lips to the delicate skin behind Rose's earlobe. She shuddered then gently pushed against him.

"Not now," she whispered, trying to suppress the longing Sherlock had aroused in her. "You have a visitor."

Sherlock abruptly pulled back and furrowed his brow. "Who? A client?"

"Mary."

The detective's face lit up. "Oh! Good. Did you meet her? Sure you can't stay for a cuppa?" he added, a little less lasciviously this time.

"I did meet her. She's... lovely. I'm sorry—I do have to go, though."

Rose could tell that Sherlock's brain had skipped ahead several thousand thoughts already. He quickly looked at his watch.

"Is John up there as well?" he asked.

"Uh, no." Thank goodness.

Sherlock tutted. "He's useless. I don't know what he's playing at. He's been dodging us all morning. And I thought he was the type of doctor who didn't make house calls. Why he had to go look at Mr Carmody's gout, I'll never know. We're supposed to be finalising the design for the invitations. Did Mary show you?"

"Sherlock," Rose said, lightly grasping Sherlock's arm, endeavouring to bring him back to the here and now. "I may have told another lie."

Sherlock fully focussed his attention back to Rose. He narrowed his eyes at her and stated, "You told Mary you were my therapist."

"Yes."

Sherlock's shoulders drooped and he bowed his head as he exhaled.

"I raced in to get my phone," Rose added, when Sherlock said nothing except to rake an irate hand through his hair. "And I didn't realise she was in the living room. She saw me coming out of your bedroom."

This snippet of information piqued Sherlock's interest. "You were coming out of my bedroom?" he repeated, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.

"It's not funny!" Rose hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're going to have to tell her why my phone was in your room. I couldn't think of a reason, not that she asked."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not going to tell her anything."

"Sherlock, you have to!"

"Only if she asks me directly. You don't go around offering up information like that. Only lies have detail, Rose."

"Well, can you think of something? I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she thought something was up."

Sherlock ventured to direct a warm smile at Rose. "That's because you're a terrible liar."

"Sherlock," Rose said sternly, arching an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine," Sherlock sighed. "What's one more person in my life who thinks I'm having a mental breakdown?"

"That would be one less person who knows I was a prostitute."

There was an uneasy silence as Sherlock processed Rose's last statement. Rose had looked away from Sherlock, so he stepped closer and cupped a hand to her neck, gently stroking her jaw with his thumb. "Sorry, Rose. Just ignore me. I'm an idiot."

Rose smiled warmly at Sherlock, and placed her hand over his. She wished she didn't keep overreacting to the fact of her previous occupation. "I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I'm spreading this lie to everyone who knows you. I'm not very good at thinking on my feet."

Sherlock studied Rose's eyes, which were glistening in sincerity. A tiny tweak in his heart gave him pause. He dropped his hand from Rose's cheek, bringing her hand with his. He threaded his fingers through hers and sighed deeply. "What does it matter, really," he said, shrugging. "It's easy to believe that my stint abroad—being undercover for two years, pretending to be dead to people who cared about me—would leave some kind of emotional scarring. Why wouldn't I need a therapist?"

Why wouldn't I need you? Sherlock's mind ventured to add.

Rose gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze and leant forward to lightly brush Sherlock's lips with hers. In that moment, when Sherlock's heart seemed to swell involuntarily, he felt a sudden rush of panic. The fear of leaving himself weakened and vulnerable surged through him. As Rose eased back, Sherlock stiffened and pulled himself a little taller.

"At least that's how I would be if I had an inferior mind," he intoned.

"Which you don't," Rose said pleasantly, not noticing Sherlock's shift in demeanour.

"Which I don't," he repeated.

Rose dropped Sherlock's hand and took a step back. She readjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder as she made a move to leave.

"I'll try to avoid offering up any information from now on," she said. "But I did ask Mary not to mention it to John."

"Why would you say that?"

"To maintain the illusion that you don't want everyone to know."

Two creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as he tutted once more. "So I'm telling John that I'm inviting just a friend to his wedding, but Mary and Mrs Hudson will think that I want my therapist there?"

Rose saw this as her get out of jail free card. She volunteered, "Or I could just not go to the wedding."

"I know you're trying to get out of it, Rose. And don't think I've forgotten about the dancing lessons," Sherlock added pointedly.

"I have to get to work," Rose sighed. It looked as though they were going to go around in circles. "We'll talk about this later. Will you come over?"

Sherlock's face softened and he narrowed the gap between them. With his mouth hovering over Rose's, he whispered, "Of course." He then pressed a warm, tender kiss to Rose's lips. "Goodbye, Rose," he whispered.

"See you later," Rose bid him quietly before she proceeded along the passageway to the front door.

Sherlock had just ascended a couple of steps when Rose called him back to get him to check along the street for signs of paparazzi, although she actually meant for signs of John Watson. When Sherlock gave her the all clear, Rose swiftly exited.

Sherlock regarded the closed door to the street as he leant against the wall along the passageway.

Why the sudden panic attack in Rose's presence? he asked himself. What was that deep emotion that preceded it that caused my mind to put up a wall of defence?

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly, as if to lose those thoughts. He was far too busy to dwell on such things. He had a wedding to organise, and there was no time for romance, or whatever, when he had such a long To Do list to deal with.

With a renewed energy in his step, Sherlock bounded up the stairs, two at a time. He found Mary Morstan sitting at the living room table, holding swatches of dressmaking fabric against the cardboard scale model of the reception venue.

Glancing up as the detective entered the room, she remarked, "This shade of lilac is perfect."

"Excellent," Sherlock murmured, with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye. He hung up his coat on the back of the door, then also shrugged out of his jacket, which he draped over a chair. "Just going to change into something more comfortable," he said, making his way through the kitchen. "Did you put the kettle on? We've got work to do."

Sherlock thought that moving about and talking quickly would somehow avoid the topic of conversation that he knew to be foremost on Mary's mind.

"And where's that useless husband of yours?" he called back.

"Fiancé," Mary corrected him. "He's on his way, apparently."

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom several minutes later, still clad in his shirt and trousers, but with the addition of his scarlet dressing gown.

"And now... the wedding invitation," he murmured, opening his laptop and tapping at the keyboard.

"I just met a friend of yours," Mary commented pleasantly.

"Mmm?" Sherlock asked semi-distractedly without looking up.

"Or perhaps not so much a friend, as..." Mary remarked, leaving her words hanging.

Sherlock pivoted his computer around in order to show Mary the screen. "Invitation," he declared proudly.

"Ooh, lovely!" Mary exclaimed, peering closer.

"Actually, it would lend a touch of formality if we wrote both your names in full," Sherlock added, gesturing toward the screen.

"Let's have a look."

Sherlock proceeded to edit the text while Mary straightened up and stood to one side of him. Sherlock chuckled as he inserted 'Hamish' between 'John' and 'Watson.'

"Oh, stop it," Mary admonished him. "You know he hates it." She folded her arms in front of her and walked behind Sherlock to his other side, while he worked. "She told me about the counselling, Sherlock," she began softly. "Personally, I think it's great..." When Sherlock only hummed non-committedly, Mary ventured, "Interesting that she left her phone in your bedroom."

Sherlock was in two minds about acknowledging Mary's comment and therefore giving her the go-ahead to continue the topic of conversation. But he said nothing, and continued editing the bridal couple's names.

"I was wondering why her phone would be in your bedroom," Mary repeated.

There was a continued silence, filled in only by the tapping of the keys on Sherlock's laptop.

"There," Sherlock said, moving aside in order to show Mary the modified invitation. "The layout appears richer with a block of text for the names."

Mary hummed her agreement, then persisted, "So why would Rose's phone end up in your bedroom?"

Sherlock was startled at hearing Mary utter Rose's name specifically, although his expression revealed nothing. He was fully prepared to brush off the incident, but he also felt fiercely protective and loyal to Rose and her request for privacy. Still, he couldn't see why he shouldn't have a little fun as a result of the encounter between two of the women in his life.

He heaved a dramatic sigh, then said, "I can see you're not going to let this go."

Mary shrugged, and gave Sherlock a half smile. "She's seems lovely, and I'm sure she's a competent counsellor, or whatever she is. I just thought it odd that her phone was left in your room."

Sherlock tutted. "Okay, we were having sex," he declared defeatedly. "There you have it—brilliant deduction, Ms Morstan. A Scandal in Baker Street."

There was a pregnant pause while Sherlock continued to stare at his screen, until a hint of mischief crinkled his eyes. He smiled broadly as he turned his attention back to Mary, whose own face had frozen in shock.

"She's supposed to be actively listening while I talk about whatever I like," Sherlock explained, feigning exasperation. "This morning she was tapping away at her phone; I found it extremely irritating, and unprofessional, so I confiscated it." He saw Mary's face soften, almost in relief at a more likely explanation that was consistent with the Sherlock Holmes she knew. Sherlock turned back to the screen and murmured, "And that's the last time we ever mention my little sessions again."

After a moment, Mary cleared her throat and replied, "Agreed."

Sherlock saved the invitation document while Mary looked on from behind him. Eventually, she placed her hands onto his shoulders and leant in closer. Speaking affectionately, and in a low voice, she joked, "Much easier if we just pretend you're secretly having sex with someone."

Mary swiftly left Sherlock's side, making her way to the kitchen.

Sherlock came out of his initial shock quickly enough to quip, "Not really. I do have a reputation to maintain."

Mary chuckled as she grabbed the kettle and took it over to the sink. Sherlock carefully scrutinised her retreating form. Some days he just didn't read Mary properly. Clearly she was of a superior intellect to his former flatmate, but how much did she really deduce about his relationship with Rose? Whatever she believed, though, she seemed prepared to keep Sherlock's secret, and that was good enough for him.

"Okay, what have I missed?" a weary ex-army captain sighed as he entered the living room.

Sherlock eyed his friend with suspicion. "And how is Mr Carmody?"

"Good," John replied. "His eczema's clearing up nicely."

"Hello, fiancé," Mary called out from the kitchen.

"I thought he had gout," Sherlock volunteered.

John cleared his throat, and fixed his detective friend with a weary look. "Eczema is code for doctor-patient confidentiality. I can't give you any details of course."

"You wasted no time in telling me every little detail concerning his gout this morning. The funny thing about lies, John, is that—"

"Okay, you got me, you annoying git!" John replied irritably. He held up a small package and said, "If you noticed on your little list of things to do for the wedding, it says to buy the best man a gift. Since you can't buy your own gift, this was something I had to do myself. Okay? Now you've ruined the surprise."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he examined the package from afar. "I've only ruined the surprise if you bought me a pair of cufflinks to go with the ridiculous wedding outfit you're making me wear. Now that shirt doesn't have buttons on the cuffs, unlike all the shirts I already own. And since you know that I've thrown out every pair of useless cufflinks I've ever received as gifts, then you knew I currently didn't own a pair."

John bowed his head in defeat. He then threw the package onto the living room table in front of Sherlock and said, "Well done. You completely ruined your own surprise."

He left Sherlock and ambled into the kitchen where he greeted his fiancée. Sherlock retrieved the package and gave it a light shake before he tutted, tossing it back onto the table, unopened. He brooded in front of the laptop while the tinkering of tea cups and murmuring between the betrothed couple emanated from the kitchen.

"I need both your final approvals before I send the invitation to the printing company," he eventually called out.

He heard a mutter from the kitchen before both Mary and John emerged, John carrying two cups of tea, one for Sherlock, while Mary carried her own. Sherlock moved aside, so the prospective bride and groom could see the screen clearly.

John heaved an exasperated sigh. "You've put my middle name on it."

"We've filled out loads of forms before using your full name," Mary reasoned.

John continued staring at the screen, clearly unimpressed. "Does it have to be on the invitation?"

"It's your name," Mary responded. "It's—"

"—funny," Sherlock said.

"—traditional," finished Mary, simultaneously.

John bowed his head in defeat. "Okay. Fine," he muttered.


Rose planted one final kiss onto Sherlock's lips before deciding to get up and dress for an evening shift at the strip club.

"We should try it in the bathtub in your flat next time," she murmured suggestively against his lips.

Sherlock banded his arm around Rose, preventing her from pulling away. "Why?"

"Because you like the shower so much," Rose teased him. "The bath will work so much better for us."

"How can we both fit?"

Rose couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's puzzled expression. He really was a babe in arms, sometimes.

"Can you fit into your bathtub?" she asked.

"Of course I can."

Rose moved from the side of the bed where she had been leaning over Sherlock, and climbed on top of him, so that she was straddling him. "And therefore so can I," she declared, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

Sherlock chuckled in response, a low, devilish rumble full of wicked intent. He had risen from his pillow so he could lock Rose in an embrace. "Just where I want you to be," he breathed into her ear, sending a delicious ripple of pleasure long Rose's spine.

"Sherlock, no," Rose protested weakly. "I have to get to work. You don't have to... There's no way you could be—" Rose's words died on a gasp as Sherlock pressed their hips together.

"What were you saying?" he challenged, letting the evidence speak for itself.

He pivotted Rose on his lap, twisting them both until he could lower his lover to the bed. He dipped his head and cut off Rose's protest when his mouth came down hard on hers. His lips and tongue seduced and teased with practised skill. Sherlock could feel Rose begin to respond beneath him. He knew she would consent and give in all too readily. Their previous session almost half an hour ago was over far too quickly—at least for Sherlock it had been. Sherlock knew it was his fault that Rose didn't get to finish, but they had reached a very significant milestone in their relationship and he was very keen to experience that sensation again.

They had tried to have sex in the shower without the use of a condom.

Of course the shower part was all Rose's fault, Sherlock reasoned. If she hadn't given him a taste of what that could be like back in his flat last week, he wouldn't have been thinking of trying it again whenever his mind drifted to Rose—something that was happening quite frequently these days. Their first shower session in Baker Street had been quite one-sided, with Sherlock basically receiving Rose's skillful attention, while she had received nothing in return. In Sherlock's defence, she had masturbated him them left him alone in the shower post-orgasm. By the time Sherlock had wandered out, still vaguely stunned at what had happened, Rose was half-dressed and desperate to get to work on time. She had chuckled lightly at Sherlock apologising profusely, making him vow to pay her back later—which he had, in full, but in her bed at Leinster Gardens and not her shower.

Sherlock had been hoping that this time round the experience would be more mutually beneficial. This time, he wanted to actually have sex in the shower, whatever logistics that entailed.

The opportunity presented itself when he lay waiting that evening for Rose to return from working at the entertainment store. He'd grown bored of investigating John and Mary's wedding guests, half-hoping one of them would be secretly plotting John Watson's demise just so that the Consulting Detective could uncover it. The only likely candidate would've been John's cousin's ex-boyfriend's mother. The woman had once accidentally given her neighbour's dog a leftover corncob, and the poor thing had choked on it and died. Since the woman herself wasn't invited to the wedding, Sherlock had tried to find several ways where John's cousin could therefore pose a danger as an invited guest, but the connections were pretty weak, non-existent, in fact. Even so, the detective made sure that corn would not be on the menu.

Rose had been surprised to find Sherlock lolling about on her sofa, dressed in his shirt and trousers and not his pyjamas and dressing gown as he usually did. She advised him that tonight's rostered cloakroom attendant had called in sick, and she had been asked to pick up the shift at the strip club. Therefore, she only had an hour to shower, change and catch the tube out to Shoreditch. Sherlock's ears had pricked up at the magic word. Shower.

He almost fell from the sofa as he scrambled after Rose. The woman was oblivious to the flurry of excitement behind her as she rushed into the bathroom. Rose had just turned around to close the bathroom door, and emitted a yelp of surprise when she found Sherlock blocking the doorway.

"I need a shower as well," he gushed, his nimble fingers moving like lightning to unfasten his shirt buttons. He strode forward, making the door shut behind him with one kick of his heel.

Rose froze, an expression of amusement growing on her face. "You what?"

"Shower, Rose. Hurry up," he urged. His shirt fell open and Sherlock began pulling Rose's top from the waistband of her skirt.

Rose took a step backwards. "I'm fine thanks," she said, emitting a tiny laugh. "What are you..."

Sherlock had opened the door to the shower stall and turned the hot water tap on. "Get the hot water going first," he murmured to himself, as if reciting instructions previously committed to memory. "Rose," he said, turning his attention back to the woman who now stood with her hands on her hips and not in the state of undress that he was expecting. "I thought you were in a hurry?"

Rose carefully folded her arms in front of her. Raising one eyebrow, she said, "Yes, I'm in a hurry. And I don't have time for your... shenanigans."

"Not shenanigans," Sherlock muttered, reaching back into the shower and turning on the cold tap until the water reached the desired temperature. He looked back at Rose who remained immobile. "Oh, for God's sake," he snapped. Grabbing Rose by her elbow, he backed into the shower stall, pulling her along with him.

Sherlock had moved so suddenly that Rose didn't have time to react until they both were drenched. Though in shock, she still managed to gasp, "Sherlock," before the man himself had pressed her up against the shower screen and his hot, eager mouth was upon hers. Surprise and bewilderment were cast aside, giving way to arousal and then passion. This was the wild, abandoned Sherlock Holmes she had experienced once before, against the wall outside her kitchen—where his own actions had left him reeling and ashamed.

A Sherlock Holmes consumed with raw passion easily tapped into the primitive desire Rose herself held deep within. Her heart pounded against his and her mouth responded just as hungrily. When her hands drifted to his waist and she felt his damp shirt clinging to him, she couldn't help but emit a muffled laugh against Sherlock's mouth at the situation in which she had found herself.

Sherlock's mouth left hers and he frowned at her in disapproval. "Now may I undress you?" he rasped, grasping her top once more and tugging it the rest of the way out from her skirt waistband.

With her top peeled from her upper half, Sherlock pulled Rose's camisole vest over her head, dropping it with a splash to the floor where it lay sodden along with her work blouse. It almost became a desperate race as to who could undress whom the quickest, with the added difficulty of shower-drenched clothing not being at all cooperative. Sherlock made a mental note, when he was able to, that this was not the most efficient way they could've approached a love-making session in the shower.

Naked and slicked with sudsy soap, was Sherlock's next achievement for them both. He could feel Rose straining against him as his hands streaked over her.

"Okay," Sherlock said breathlessly, coming up for air. They were at a crucial juncture, and an important decision had to be made right now.

Rose regarded Sherlock, her eyes moist with desire. Her mouth curved into a smile, and she nodded her agreement imperceptibly, although no other words had passed between them.

Sherlock's heart rate quickened and he hitched Rose up by the hips. She hooked her legs around his waist, and held her breath. A low moan broke from Sherlock as he entered her, after which he barely suppressed a curse. Sensations flooded through him, radiating from his midriff. His breathing came fast and shallow. Sherlock could feel his control slipping, so he kissed Rose long, slow and deep, and had it in his mind that he should really employ his new found technique from Tibet.

When Rose gasped his name, Sherlock knew he was seconds away from his release. He withdrew immediately, gently lowered Rose, and said one word. "Bed."

The water was cut, and the couple retreated to Rose's bedroom, where, wet and naked they fell onto the sheets. To Sherlock's horror, Rose took the upper hand; she was upon him seconds. She moved for him, her eyes full of purpose. He thought she would take it slowly, to give him time to tend to her needs. But with the practised skill of a woman formerly in the sex industry, she brought him to the brink and beyond, until he lay breathless and sated beneath her. But he didn't like to be outmanoeuvred.

"Rose," he said feebly, as she lay down beside him. "Let me—"

"No," she commanded, pushing his hands away. "Just enjoy the moment."

"Are you joking?" he struggled to ask, as his chest continued to heave.

"I'm fine," she said in between breaths. "I told you I have to go to work."

Sherlock brooded as he waited for his breathing to become steady. He had failed to satisfy Rose in the shower once more. Why did she have to spoil everything?

"Don't go yet," he said eventually. "Lie with me for a little while." He stretched out an arm, inviting Rose in for their routine post-coital cuddle.

Rose brought her hair together in a twist, and lay it over her shoulder as she always did before settling down onto Sherlock's chest. She was sorry he was disappointed, especially on such a significant occasion as not using any protection, but she really did have to go. She'd lie with him for an obligatory three minutes, then she'd get up.

Unfortunately, feeling content and secure in Sherlock's embrace had Rose delay her departure for more than half an hour. She made her quip about having sex in Sherlock's bathtub, and before she knew what was happening, the detective-genius was upon her, fulfilling her every desire.

She decided to call in sick later that evening.


Sherlock was quite aware that Rose was no longer comfortable with visiting him at Baker Street, and he wasn't backward in letting her know how irritating he found that notion. He decided that Rose was working far too hard to obtain credentials that were basically in line with what he did, and he was largely self-taught. Why did she have to jump through all these hoops for a bunch of morons? She should spend more time hanging out with him, making wedding lists, and poking into the lives of the dull and ordinary. It would be much more fun if the tasks were shared.

"Many hands make light work, or some rubbish," he'd said to her.

Rose concluded that Sherlock was wearing far too many nicotine patches that day.

When wedding guest investigations the following week took an interesting turn, Sherlock thought he'd have the opportunity to take Rose out of London for a while. The detective discovered that a couple that Mary had befriended a few years ago at God only knows where, had originated from Wisbech in Cambridgeshire, where the unsolved murder of an elderly woman had occurred just over a year ago. He jumped at the chance to visit the small market town, assuming Rose would be happy to accompany him, and to get her away from her pointless places of employment.

"A widow, found dead in her bungalow—she was stabbed, Rose, and set alight. Only her wedding ring and front door key were missing. These friends of Mary may have returned to their home town around that time. I need to speak to the neighbours."

When Rose cited work as her reason for not being able to take a mini-break from London, Sherlock proceeded to rant about Rose working far too much and having little time for him.

"We don't do anything except have sex," he said, pacing in the small confines of Rose's bedroom, wearing his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, while Rose lay naked and curled underneath her sheet. It was a little after 2am.

"You're always too tired to listen to me talking about the wedding preparations, and you've dismissed following me around on any cases, or visiting me in Baker Street. Oh no, heaven forbid anyone sees you. I need someone who's around for more than just my physical needs. I need an intellectual sparring partner, no matter how inferior. I need someone to say idiotic things that will prompt me to come to the right conclusions. What's the point in having you around?"

"What is the point?" Rose replied sleepily. "Have you been smoking again?"

Suddenly Sherlock was looming over Rose's semi-slumbering form.

"You're either coming with me, or I'm going without you."

Rose slowly turned her head to look up into Sherlock's intense grey eyes. "Is there supposed to be a threat somewhere in there?"

Sherlock straightened up, furrowing his brow in thought. "I may not have thought that one through."

"So you're going without me," Rose sighed, closing her eyes and turning over. "Don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

When Rose woke early the next morning, and shuffled over to Sherlock's side of the bed, she was surprised to find a cold, empty, Consulting Detective-less space.

"Sherlock?" she called, sitting bolt upright.

Something told her he'd caught the early train to Cambridgeshire without her after all.


"Somebody's received a special love note, but no flowers tonight! Don't worry, you can have one of mine!"

Rose turned around after tagging and hanging up a ragged, navy blue peacoat and its companion, a black bomber jacket. Melody, a peroxide blonde, who was working on the doors to the main room tonight, handed Rose a small, pink envelope that Rose reluctantly accepted. She knew what day it was, or had been, as it was fast approaching midnight.

Rose frowned as Melody leant across the counter, eyeing the cloakroom attendant expectantly.

"You're somebody's special—"

"Don't you have doors to open for the clientele?" Rose asked in an irritable fashion, that was out of character for her at the Rendezvous.

Melody tutted then tottered away leaving Rose to feel guilty at snapping at the usually effervescent young woman. Rose had been feeling down for the last couple of days, since Sherlock had left for the capital of the Fens without saying goodbye. She frequently thought about ringing him, but if he was on a case—albeit a cold case and one that may or may not have anything to do with John and Mary's prospective wedding guests—he may resent the interruption.

Sighing deeply, Rose tore open the envelope revealing only one card this time. The front of it bore a rather gauche design, prominently featuring an embossed pink love heart. Her own heart skipped a beat, nevertheless, as she opened the card and immediately recognised Sherlock's hurried scrawl.

I'm sorry I left in the middle of the night. You will be pleased to know that I did give you a goodbye kiss while you were still asleep. I'm actually back in London now, so could you please meet me at the Pietra Miliare after you've finished work. The Grand Master Suite. I am aware that you're working in the cloakroom tonight, and that you'll be finished late. You don't need to bring anything. —SH

P.S. Yes, I do know what day it is.

X … that's a hello kiss, by the way.

Rose stared dumbfounded at Sherlock's message for a moment longer. The Pietra Miliare was one of the most expensive hotels in central London. And surely the Grand Master Suite is the most expensive room...

What on earth was the man doing?

Rose was rostered on until midnight. Was that Sherlock's plan—to have the card delivered only minutes before she was scheduled to finish, so she didn't have time to think about alternative arrangements?

"Rose," Frank the doorman called out. "Your cab's here."

"I didn't order a cab... no, wait!" she hurriedly called out, before Frank stepped back outside. "Could you hold it for me?"

Rose had already been greeted by her replacement, Mia, Gary the owner's niece. So she knew she could skip out a minute early.

Rose hastened through to the main club area, after ordering Melody to watch the cloakroom for her. Rose's seniority over most of the other staff gave her the authority to issue orders, but she was bemused to see the young blonde make her way across the entrance to stand by the cloakroom counter looking surly.

At the back of the club lay a rabbit's warren of private rooms, and beyond them, behind a locked door manned by a security guard, was the dancers' dressing room. Rose found Mia there, gossiping amongst the dancers who were in various stages of undress, and asked the young woman if she minded starting a few minutes early. The other dancers were only too happy to see Rose, their in-house agony aunt, and they loved it when she had the time to sit down and have a chat with them.

Tonight, though, Rose had no time for chit-chat. She announced to the room at large, "I have a last-minute date. Does anybody have any street clothes I can borrow?"

.


Author's Note:

I'm actually half-way through writing the hotel room scene, but another week has started and that means I'll have little chance to write again until Friday. So I thought it'd be better to pop it into the next chapter, and end this chapter here. Hope you don't mind! At least this way you got 6K of semi-fluff to read :)

Uploading one chapter per month just horrifies me. I don't know what I can do to get them out faster with my year going like it is. I'll do my best though. Don't forget that I keep my profile updated regularly with my progress on writing each chapter.

Please don't give up on this fic! The whole story is in my head, but I just can't extract it fast enough.

Seriously, the world needs to stop for fan fiction.

I should get that put onto a t-shirt.