Chapter 32 - But Anyway, Let's Talk About John
Rose watched the concierge as he dialled the number to the Grand Master Suite. She had already entered the lift moments prior, only to find that access to the suites required a special key card. She had sent Sherlock a text, but he hadn't replied, so she paced about the reception area frequently glancing at her phone, only to be set upon by the concierge.
After the well-groomed and quietly-spoken man had discreetly spoken to someone on the other end of the phone—presumably Sherlock—the concierge gestured toward the lift, indicating that Rose precede him inside. He waved a key card over a small panel, and once an indicator light turned to green, he pressed the button to the luxury suites. After what felt like an interminable amount of time, with Rose receiving many an unimpressed sideways glance, the door to the top floor opened, and again the concierge gestured for Rose to alight before him.
As there were two sets of double doors on this floor, apart from the single door at the end of the corridor marked 'Exit', Rose paused and asked the concierge to direct her to the Grand Master Suite. He indicated the set on the right, so Rose remarked, "I'm fine from here, thank you."
The man sniffed, then replied in a tone dripping with condescension, "Permit me, miss." He tapped lightly on the door, and the uncomfortable silence that ensured made Rose's skin crawl. She wished he would just go.
After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock opened one of the double doors.
"Your... guest, sir," the concierge announced, gifting Sherlock with an unctuous smile.
"Thank you," Sherlock replied dismissively, before the detective raked his eyes over Rose.
Rose's heart sank at Sherlock's furrowed brow, and before he could get a word out in greeting, she brusquely pushed her way into the room, anxious to get as far away from the concierge as possible.
Rose stopped abruptly a few paces into the suite. She stared, mesmerised, at the opulent Victorian-era furnishings set in neutral tones, and the dark timber furniture ornamented with gold trim. She had never felt more out of place in her life.
"Hmm, let me see," Sherlock said after closing the door, and coming up behind Rose. "You were obviously concerned about showing up in a prestige hotel wearing your uniform from the strip club, so you've asked your dancer friends if you could borrow their clothes."
Rose turned to him, her expression barely masking her previous discomfort.
Sherlock continued, unabated. "Although you probably requested their most conservative articles of clothing, you still couldn't avoid a plunging neckline and tight-fitting skirt, although the length is semi-acceptable. Still, you received obvious looks of disdain from our friend at reception, perhaps even lascivious glances directed at your cleavage. My hesitance in greeting you warmly due to my surprise at your uncharacteristic appearance has only lessened your feelings of self-worth. An arrival at this late hour, as a guest—with no luggage—to a single gentleman in an expensive hotel suite, has you mistaken for a high class escort. Ergo, I've made you feel like a prostitute. Again."
All of a sudden, Rose's troubled expression brightened into a smile, and she chuckled lightly at Sherlock's very detailed deduction of the situation. "No," she countered, walking back toward Sherlock. With half a laugh, she wound her arms about his neck and said, "I made myself feel like a prostitute again. You did no such thing."
Sherlock bent his head, his eyes glistening with warmth as a smile grew on his face. "Hello, Rose," he said in a low register before his lips met hers. He kissed her with practiced precision, making her doubts and anxieties dissolve underneath his soft touch.
When they drew back, and Rose had caught her breath, she asked, "Why are we here?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Valentine's Day?" Rose asked dubiously, for this was Sherlock Holmes who was stood in front of her, and the day had long ended, it being well after midnight.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed for her, a note of derision in his tone. "Although that wasn't the initial reason for coming here... just an unfortunate coincidence."
Rose smiled uneasily. It seemed a bit silly then. She was never a big Valentine's Day advocate, and neither was Sherlock, that much was clear. So why celebrate it?
"My original motive is this way." Sherlock grabbed Rose's hand and led her to a doorway across the luxurious sitting room. They stopped outside and Sherlock placed his hand on the doorknob. "You mentioned having a bath together," he explained, his expression barely masking an underlying enthusiasm. "Or more specifically, having sex in one. And I happen to know you like a long, hot soak in my tub, not having one in your own flat. Since you won't come to Baker Street anymore, I thought I'd find one in another location, for a... ah... treat."
"Kind of a..."
"Extravagance?" Sherlock finished. He sighed, then lamented, "Try finding a hotel within central London whose rooms are equipped with adequate-sized bathtubs, and on Valentine's Day."
He opened the door, pushing it inwards, revealing a spacious marble bathroom with an enormous corner bath into which water was currently flowing.
"It's taking an age to fill," Sherlock remarked to a dumbstruck Rose. "Sorry. I was in here when you sent your text, and didn't hear my phone." He crossed the room and bent over the tub to test the temperature of the water with a quick swish of his hand. "Another fifteen minutes, I think."
Rose was again amused at Sherlock's new-found enthusiasm for different sexual experiences. She found her voice as Sherlock straightened up and sauntered over to her. Arching an eyebrow, she mused out loud, "Now, what can we do for the next fifteen minutes?"
Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow, as he sought to admonish Rose.
"I'm saving myself for our bath together. Aren't you?"
"I guess so," she teased. Rose turned from Sherlock and made to exit the bathroom. "Anything to drink? I've had a crap evening."
Sherlock followed Rose back out to the main room, shutting the bathroom door on the noisy filling of the tub.
"There's an entire mini bar," he said, gesturing to an ornate drinks trolley adjacent to one of the majestic windows.
Rose shrugged out of her coat, revealing the rest of her attire, as she eyed the selection. She caught Sherlock scanning her from head to toe.
"Yes, you were right," she sighed. "Most of your deduction thing, that is. Not a conservative outfit among them. And they fussed about, wanting me to try on the most outrageous clothing. I'm sure they think I'm an old maid compared to them. Well, at least I managed to escape wearing my own underwear."
Sherlock fixed Rose with a half smile, picturing whatever was the collective noun for a group of strippers surrounding Rose and forcing garments upon her person.
He turned to the drinks trolley and asked, "What would you like?"
Rose grimaced and replied, "Actually tea would be lovely. I haven't put my feet up all day."
With a broad grin in agreement, Sherlock strode across the room to a side table that held an antique rotary dial telephone. He couldn't agree more about choosing a cup of the English brew over alcohol. He called down to reception and ordered a pot to be brought up to their room.
Sherlock settled onto the sofa next to Rose, who was wriggling her toes after removing her heels. He propped his legs up onto the coffee table, stretching out one arm along the length of the back of the sofa, behind Rose's head.
"How was... where did you go again?" she asked the detective. "Have you found any murderers amongst the guest list yet?"
Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. "No, but I gave the Cambridgeshire constabulary a nudge in the right direction. I can't believe they initially thought the victim had set fire to herself by accident."
Sherlock went on to explain about the victim's dementia, and a plot to ease her suffering with a co-conspirator. Rose only half listened. She closed her eyes, leaning her head onto Sherlock's arm and rubbed her fingertips across her brow.
"Aaand you're not listening," Sherlock finished.
Rose opened her eyes and smiled sheepishly at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I'll be fine once I've had a cuppa."
"You're tired because you've been working two jobs—an all day shift at the entertainment store, followed by an all night shift at the strip club. And, if I'm not mistaken, you're on opening the shop tomorrow."
"No, I don't start til eleven. I swapped shifts with Gus."
"Oh good. Because check out is at ten. Unless you want to call in sick so I can book us another night?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows raised in hope.
Rose shuffled in closer, now able to rest her head against Sherlock's chest. He curled his arm around her shoulders.
"Sounds wonderful," she sighed. "But taking sick days so I can get off with you is starting to become a bad habit."
"I wouldn't say 'bad,'" he joked.
Rose chuckled against his chest, but offered no further comment. She closed her eyes once more, and exhaled deeply.
"Don't fall asleep just yet," Sherlock said, his voice rumbling through his chest and directly into her ear.
Rose looked up at Sherlock to see him gazing at her with great affection, his face only inches from hers.
"I'm not physically tired, really," she said, lifting her head from his chest. "This entire day has just exhausted me mentally. Fucking Valentine's Day and its complete load of wank."
"A long soak in the bath will do you the world of good," Sherlock suggested mischievously.
"Do you know what they did at the club tonight?"
"There's only so much I can deduce from the tired look in your eyes."
"Well, I'll tell you then," Rose began, shifting her body away from Sherlock as she sat up taller. "Sasha walked around with a basket of single red roses, offering them to the clientele to purchase. If they bought one and then gave the rose to one of our girls, they'd receive a kiss in return. The girls then went out the back, popped their roses back into Sasha's basket, and she'd sell them again. Can you believe that?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied, furrowing his brow at the nonsensical sequence of events—what morons did for entertainment. "Yes, I can."
"But what really annoyed me, were the girls who kept coming up to me all night, pitying me for not receiving any roses. I mean, as if I'd want one under those circumstances—receiving a rose from a drunken stranger who wants you to kiss him with his alcoholic breath, while he grabs your arse. No, thanks. I don't even like getting flowers from anyone on Valentine's Day. It all seems so contrived."
Sherlock studied Rose's face a moment while he digested the words of her mini rant. He cleared his throat, and said, "Then you may not want to look on your side of the bed."
It took a moment before Sherlock's words sunk in, and he continued to watch Rose out of interest for a hint of a reaction.
"Sherlock!" she eventually gasped, then she hastily left the couch.
"I said you may not want to look," Sherlock called out to Rose's swiftly retreating form, before he too, stood and followed her to the bedroom.
Rose had rounded the king-sized canopy bed to find a single red rose lying on one pillow. Sherlock stopped in the doorway, his hands thrust comfortably in his trouser pockets as he looked on in amusement.
Rose gently picked up the flower by the stem, and turned to Sherlock, her eyes glistening with affection.
"Just another one of those social custom things," Sherlock began, "that I thought you celebrated, along with Christmas, New Year's and birthdays. My apologies if I've contributed to the capitalist ideologies of the day."
Sherlock could see Rose struggling to remain composed before she rushed at him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she gushed, "But it means so much more coming from you."
She held him tightly, her arms firmly clamped around his neck. Sherlock brought his hands out from his pockets and returned her embrace.
"Thank you," she whispered after she drew back.
"Now please don't return it to the florist," Sherlock quipped. "I won't be buying you another. Do you know how inflated the price of roses becomes on Val—"
Rose swiftly shushed the Consulting Detective by capturing his lips in hers. Sherlock enthusiastically returned the sentiment, having missed Rose's company for the few days he'd spent out of London. Then an idea came to the forefront of his mind—one more silly tradition in a day of pointless customs it seemed. He eased out of their kiss long enough to awkwardly ask, "Will you be my... Valentine?" When Rose's face brightened in amusement, he quickly added, "That's what they say, don't they?"
Rose laughed lightly at Sherlock's moment of ignorance, then responded, "Yes. Yes, they do." When he appeared relieved, she answered, "And yes, I will."
She was just about to narrow the gap between them once more, when Sherlock's eyes widened in shock.
"What's wrong?"
"Rose, I have no idea what I've just committed to."
Rose couldn't help but laugh at the poor man, which did little to ease Sherlock's fear and anxiety. She lightly tossed the rose onto the end of the bed, then grasped Sherlock by the hand. Pulling him toward the door, she said, "All you've committed to is a long, hot soak in the tub with me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward as John repeated his fiancée's words to the detective.
"Under no circumstances. They're strictly off limits."
The Consulting Detective regarded his list of wedding guests once more. Only a handful of names were left for him to investigate, three of which were Mary's bridesmaids. The bride-to-be had issued a directive that Sherlock was not allowed to peek into the lives of her girlfriends.
"Mary's pretty cluey when it comes to people. She's quite intuitive." When Sherlock tutted, John added, "Don't forget, she liked you the minute you rose from the dead."
"What's not to like?"
Ignoring Sherlock's quip, John remarked, "So we don't believe any of the bridesmaids are plotting to murder me."
"And why not?" Sherlock challenged. "We still haven't uncovered the identity nor motive of the person or persons responsible for testing your combustive qualities on Guy Fawkes Night."
"Pretty sure Mary's girlfriends didn't have anything to do with it."
Sherlock sighed and ran his eyes down the list once more. "That just leaves the other wedding attendants." He frowned, then narrowed his eyes at one name in particular. "This one doesn't seem to have any qualifications. In fact, he didn't even complete his primary education. That immediately rings alarm bells."
"Are you talking about Archie? Because he's eight years old."
"Oh."
"He's the page boy, and he'll be holding the rings. Anything else... ring alarm bells?" John queried, stifling a laugh.
Sherlock tossed the list onto the table. "David someone," he said, waving a hand dismissively at the discarded list. "What's his relationship with Mary?"
John shrugged nonchalantly. "Just a... friend. He's fine. He's good. Mary would like him to be an usher."
"Just a... friend?" Sherlock repeated, emphasising the pause in John's statement.
"Yeah. So.. tea? Did you put the kettle on earlier?"
John strode into the kitchen while Sherlock sat down at his computer, muttering to himself, "A fine, good friend can only mean ex-boyfriend. And jealousy is a curse for the weak-minded and a perfect motive for murder."
Sherlock tapped away at his keyboard while John kept busy in the kitchen. To Sherlock, it felt much like old times, and he preceded to ignore John as much as he ever did. That is, until John said something worth listening to.
"So Mary suggested I check with you if you wanted to invite anybody... you know, to be your guest."
The rapid typing stopped as Sherlock tried to analyse the motive behind Mary's suggestion. Did John's fiancée suspect that Rose was more than just Sherlock's therapist? What then? A friend? Lover?
Girlfriend?
Naturally, John Watson misinterpreted his friend's musings.
"Of course, Mrs Hudson and Molly already have their own invitations," he added. "But, if there was someone else you wanted to invite?"
Sherlock immediately took offence at John's assumption that there was nobody else in the detective's life other than his landlady and his pathologist.
"Yes, I think I may," he replied, almost coldly. He resumed his efforts on the computer again by clicking the mouse button rather irritably.
"Really?" John responded. Then the doctor cleared his throat and attempted to take the incredulity out of his voice. "I mean, that's great. Good."
"I may even surprise you."
"Yeah, yeah, I think you may."
There was an uneasy silence that John attempted to fill by seating himself noisily into his old armchair and rustling a newspaper as he searched for an interesting article to read. Sherlock brooded as he continued to research Mary's ex-boyfriend's online presence.
He was in two minds about mentioning Rose to John. Of course the doctor would remember her as Shelley, the university student. Sherlock supposed that the last time John had encountered her was when she'd come around to Baker Street to offer her condolences, and had then subsequently stolen the cushion from John's chair.
If he told John about Rose, would he also offer the information that she was one of the privileged few who knew about his fake suicide? Would he ever tell John the truth about initially meeting Rose in a brothel? There was the truth, and then there was the whole story. Sherlock knew that revealing either or any of it would hurt the people he cared about. He would have to keep up the pretence then, and he was rather skilful at that.
Speaking of Rose, and all the joy she currently brought him, Sherlock was looking forward to tonight. Rose had decided on a new routine, one which would bring her back to Baker Street at least once per week. Sundays were her day off, and she had decided to give away her Sunday evening shift at the strip club. This would allow her to come to Sherlock's flat after her Saturday night shift, under the cover of darkness, spend all day Sunday—hiding out in Sherlock's bedroom, if she needed to—then leaving in the early hours of Monday morning, as discreetly as she had arrived.
Rose also changed her method of working at the call centre. She had asked Tracey Yale, her supervisor at the crisis centre, if she could be authorised to provide counselling via email, as it was an option offered by the centre to those who felt too exposed speaking about their issues by phone. Rose was granted access, which meant she could work from home, negating the need to commute, and therefore she could spend more evenings in Sherlock's company.
Sherlock and Rose had already spent a couple of Sundays in and out of bed in Baker Street, with Sherlock deciding that Rose's days off should commence with long, hot soaks in his bathtub. Obviously it wasn't as spacious as the Grand Master Suite's corner bath at the Pietra Miliare, but Sherlock had concluded after their Valentine's Day session, that sex in the bath didn't quite meet his expectations and wasn't worth a second attempt.
"I don't mind using the bath during foreplay," he'd told Rose afterwards, "but the water tends to dilute the natural lubrication created when—"
Rose hadn't allowed Sherlock to continue with his detailed critique, and when he rated sex in the bath a possible six out of ten, with sex in the shower being an eight, and their regular sex—these days without the use of a condom—having a rating of nine, Rose also forbade him ever telling her his ratings again. She did, however, silently wonder what rated a ten on Sherlock's scale. She suspected it may have been sex against her kitchen wall, but he was too embarrassed to admit it.
Since it was the beginning of March, Rose had reminded Sherlock that he ought to begin working on his wedding speech, and she'd offered to help him that Sunday after he'd looked suitably horrified at the prospect. He also had a couple more serviette designs to show Rose; they had been road-testing options for the wedding. He wouldn't show John and Mary until they had narrowed the selection, or at least until Sherlock had narrowed the selection as Rose was particularly hopeless at origami and kept insisting that a valley fold was exactly the same as a mountain fold if you turned one upside-down.
After John had departed for home in the early evening, with the Consulting Detective declining an invitation to tea, Sherlock set about gathering up his supplies that consisted of two packets of paper serviettes, and one box of linen napkins, along with several books on origami. He relocated them to his bedroom for a fun session of serviette folding with Rose the next day. He also cleaned his bathtub, and stole down to Mrs Hudson's bathroom to "borrow" a jar of bath salts. While he was downstairs, he acquired a few other items that he deemed appropriate.
With his Saturday night preparation for Rose complete, he then dressed and left his flat to spend a few hours at Bart's morgue, where Molly had acquired the body of a man who had been burnt to a crisp in an horrific car crash. Sherlock had become intrigued by the information one could glean from such a corpse since his return from Cambridgeshire and the case of the incinerated pensioner, and had requested that Molly let him know the next time such a specimen crossed her desk, so to speak. He had six hours to kill before Rose was due at his flat anyway.
Rose was glad she had been able to finish her shift at Roches by the early afternoon, as it gave her time to swing by a bookstore to pick up a little something for Sherlock. She also had time to go home and refresh herself before her shift at the Rendezvous that evening. Unfortunately, it also meant that she could keep to her promise of having afternoon tea upstairs with Tonya Small.
Rose had tried to keep her interactions with the Clarence House Cannibal to a minimum, particularly since the woman kept bringing up, at every opportunity, the philosophies of the ASXX—the Anti-SeXXploitation Project. Their tea session this afternoon was no exception. Instead of honing in on Rose's relationship with Sherlock, or sexploitation as Ms Small labelled it, the older woman began campaigning for Rose to leave her job at the strip club, since it was a business that was furthering men's longstanding acts of violence against women.
Rose found it far easier to issue vague noises in agreement, rather than try to defend her occupation, and she was rather grateful—but felt slightly guilty about the fact—when Ms Small abruptly pushed her chair backwards, catching one of her darlings' paws underneath the chair leg. The ensuing yelping of the canine, and cooing of Tonya Small gave Rose the perfect opportunity to make her excuses and leave. After several air kisses and promises to return another time, Rose was able to escape.
She had just enough time to pack an overnight bag for her stay at Sherlock's, which she took with her to work at the club that night. Her shift appeared to drag, especially as Rose eyed each of the clientele critically, for signs of being a fierce advocate for the continued abuse of women.
She was glad she had decided to make some simple adjustments to her life to be more accommodating to Sherlock, especially after his latest effort in an ever growing list of romantic gestures.
After her shift ended at midnight, she obtained a lift, as per her usual routine, asking this time, to be dropped off at Baker Street, instead of travelling all the way to Bayswater.
Sherlock had arrived home only half an hour earlier, and he had already built the fire, showered and donned his pyjamas and dressing gown. He was just putting the kettle on when Rose entered. Sherlock turned around and leant his back against the kitchen bench as Rose dropped her bag on the ground and approached him for her hello hug and kiss.
As they drew apart, Sherlock said, "Perfect timing. I think the bath is just about full."
"Oh, you're too much," Rose said, feigning irritation. She fixed Sherlock with another quick kiss on his lips, and then left him standing in the kitchen while she retrieved her bag and headed to the passageway through the kitchen. She called back, "I think I'm going to keep you."
A warm smile graced Sherlock's lips, as he turned back to finish making the tea. Just wait til she sees the—
"Oh, Sherlock!" came a happy cry from the bathroom.
—candles.
As Sherlock slowly dunked the teabags into the mugs, he reflected on how easy it was to keep one's partner happy with small gestures and only the tiniest amount of preparation. How could anyone get this relationship stuff wrong? The detective had reasoned that keeping Rose happy and content whenever she came to Baker Street would only make her want to spend more time there.
He set his tea onto the kitchen table beside his laptop then carried Rose's mug of tea toward his bedroom. Crossing the room, Sherlock grabbed the chair that sat in one corner and took it into the bathroom. The tiny room was aglow with the dozen candles he had acquired from around Mrs Hudson's flat.
"You are so romantic," Rose said, looking up as he placed the chair beside the bathtub. He then set the mug onto the makeshift table. She gestured to the candles, half a dozen of which sat perched beside the sink, with another group arranged at one end of the tub. "This is much more relaxing than the bath at the hotel."
"I thought you may be settling in for the night, so I assumed you'd want to take your tea in here as well."
Rose smiled sheepishly. "Is that all right? I'll try not to be long."
"No, no, take your time. I have work to do."
Sherlock leant over Rose, stooping low so he could plant a kiss on her forehead. Rose lifted her face to him, and Sherlock improved on his first kiss by planting the second on her lips.
"Are you sure you won't come in?" she asked.
Sherlock straightened up and grimaced. "Bit harsh on the knees," he volunteered, then made moves for the door.
"I thought it was because of the lubrication, or lack there-of."
"That, too," Sherlock answered. "In fact, I'm composing a list of reasons why we shouldn't have sex in the bathtub."
"You know, I think I'll take back what I said about you being romantic. Your five stars have been reduced to four."
Sherlock's eyes twinkled at Rose's mock chastisement. He was just about through the door when Rose called out, "Oh, I've bought you a book. It's just in the top of my bag."
Sherlock frowned in anticipation of Rose's choice of book. He opened her bag that she had placed on the bed and drew out a thin, plain hardback.
"How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech," he read from the lacklustre cover.
"Should help you make a start," Rose responded, a touch of mischief in her tone.
Sherlock deposited the book onto his bedside table, and drifted back out into the kitchen without saying a word. He'd deal with that pointless exercise later, much later—perhaps on the night before the wedding.
When Rose finally convinced herself that the bath water was indeed becoming colder and her skin was completely wrinkled, she reluctantly left the tub, dried herself and dressed lightly in nothing more than a robe she'd brought with her.
She found Sherlock at his kitchen table peering intently at an image on his computer screen, before turning his attention to a photograph he held in his hand.
"Still busy?" Rose asked as she approached the detective with her empty tea mug in her hand.
"Single vehicle collision," Sherlock murmured, his eyes fixed on the image. "The car exploded and was engulfed in flames. Initial pathology tests reveal that the driver had already expired before being consumed by the fire, but not as a result of the car accident. In fact, the vehicle collided with the concrete pillar because he had already died behind the wheel."
He lay the photograph onto the table, and Rose glanced at the blackened image. She tore her eyes away and busied herself taking both their empty mugs to the kitchen sink.
"No soot present in the deceased's airways," Sherlock volunteered by way of an explanation.
"Oh," Rose replied, rinsing one mug under running water.
"But how did you die?" he muttered to his screen.
"Don't the police have forensic people to figure that out?" she asked.
"Yes, they do, and yes she has."
"She?" Rose queried.
"Molly Hooper," Sherlock sighed, shuffling to the next photo. "She's challenged me to find the cause of death, and told me that the evidence is here in these photographs. She knows I like to keep my mind occupied when I don't have a case to work on."
"Oh," Rose commented feebly, wiping her hands on the back of her dressing gown. She knew she'd heard the name Molly Hooper somewhere, but just couldn't place it. So Sherlock has friends who know he likes to be challenged intellectually, she thought. She reflected on the night before Sherlock had left for Cambridgeshire, when he had ranted about Rose being too tired all the time, and not making the effort to stimulate his mind, only his libido. He did tip me for my conversation, she thought darkly in regard to the early days of their acquaintance.
Rose once again vowed to make an effort for Sherlock—to engage in lively conversations—except for tonight; she was far too tired to probe him about this topic, and the subject matter appeared particularly gruesome anyway.
Rose came up behind Sherlock, and gently placing her hands on his shoulders, she leant forward and kissed his cheek.
"Goodnight," she whispered, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.
"You're going to bed already?" he asked, managing to tear his eyes away from his screen.
"It's almost 2am."
"Is it?"
Sherlock glanced at his watch, his brow furrowed at the fact that time had escaped him yet again.
"But you keep working if you're in the middle of something," Rose said encouragingly. "We have all day tomorrow."
Sherlock's expression brightened, and he rose from his chair.
"Yes, we do, don't we?" he responded, wrapping his arms around Rose. So many things to look forward to, he thought—a puzzle spread out before him, and a Rose to curl up next to once his mind had closed down for the day. He really was a very lucky man.
He dipped his head for the lightest and briefest of kisses, but Rose huffed a laugh against his lips and drew him in tightly.
As his mouth covered hers once more, Sherlock ran one hand along Rose's spine, while his other hand caressed her arm with light fingertips, firstly downwards, and then gliding back up, finding room between her arm and the wide sleeve of the dressing gown. Her skin felt soft and silky as a result of a good soak in his bath full of salts—an unblemished, smooth expanse of skin...
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly pulling Rose away from him. "Ante-mortem lacerations," he declared, with wide-eyes focussed on some point behind Rose.
He returned his gaze to the woman who had remained loosely in his embrace and who regarded him in some amusement. Sherlock cupped her face in his hands, and said, "Rose, you're a genius!" He kissed her briefly on the lips then released her.
Turning back to his work, Sherlock searched through the photos scattered around the table, muttering, "Lacerations are detectable because they are more than likely angled perpendicularly to the muscle fibre, whereas skin and muscle splits caused by fire damage..." he straightened up and reached for Rose's arm. Running his fingertips along the length of her arm as he had done moments earlier, he continued. "They run along the plane of the muscle. I'm looking for a sharp force injury. He'd been stabbed, Rose!"
Sherlock directed his attention to the table of images once more. Rose laughed to herself. She'd stimulated his mind after all, although in a somewhat roundabout fashion. She gently squeezed Sherlock's arm and whispered, "'Night, Sherlock," before quietly retreating to his bedroom.
Sherlock slept on, his naked form curled around Rose's. The amount of diffused light in his bedroom indicated to Rose that they'd slept longer than usual. She would've like to have snuggled into him until he woke naturally, but the bathroom beckoned. She quietly slipped from Sherlock's embrace and visited the ensuite. When she returned, she found that Sherlock hadn't stirred at all. Checking Sherlock's phone that he had left on his bedside table in the early hours, she found it was a little after nine. She knew Sherlock had come to bed at around five in the morning, because he had loudly declared it as such at the time. Granted, he wasn't making that remark to her, but to the person on the other end of the phone, who he had presumably woken at that ungodly hour as well.
"What do you mean 'at this hour'?" he'd asked the other party. "Why weren't you already awake? It's almost five o'clock. Well, anyway, I worked it out. He had been stabbed and he was trying to drive himself to the hospital when he was overcome by his injuries. Hello? Molly?" The pathologist had obviously ended the call on him.
"Sorry, Rose," Sherlock had apologised, when his sleepy, irritable-looking companion lifted her head from the pillow.
Sherlock had swiftly discarded his pyjamas, then slipped into bed naked.
"No sex," he had said to Rose's almost slumbering form. "I'm far too tired for your shenanigans," he joked to his unappreciative audience. He wrapped himself around Rose and in one deep exhale, he too was fast asleep.
Rose decided she'd had enough sleep for the time being. She could always have an afternoon nap if she spent a good part of midday romping with Sherlock, if the last two Sundays were anything to go by. So she left the sleeping detective and made her way to the kitchen after wrapping herself in her dressing gown. She would make him tea and then wake him by showering him with soft kisses a little later.
With the kettle on, and two tea mugs set out with their respective teabags sitting in them, patiently waiting for their hot bath, Rose drifted to the living room where she placed a couple more logs into the coals that were still aglow. When the kettle clicked off, she made her way back to the kitchen, and was startled to see Sherlock's ghost standing in the passageway beside the fridge, staring unemotionally at her.
"Why didn't you wake me?" it said, before turning around and drifting along the passageway to the bathroom.
"Why are you walking around wrapped in your bedsheet?" Rose laughed, following him to the back of the flat, where he had left the bathroom door ajar.
"It's cold," Sherlock called back.
When Rose heard the unmistakeable sound of toilet usage, she pulled up a metre short of the open door.
"I thought you'd want to sleep in," she said to him through the wall. "I'm making you tea anyway," she added, before turning back to the kitchen.
"My phone woke me with a text alert," he called back.
Rose heard continued murmuring, so after pouring hot water into the mugs, she left them on the bench to steep and walked back to the bathroom to find out what he was saying.
"Christ!" she heard Sherlock exclaim just before she reached the door.
Hurrying a little, she rounded the doorway into the ensuite to find Sherlock lying down in the bathtub, fully underwater, except for his legs, which were bent at the knees allowing his upper half to be completely submerged.
"Sherlock!"
Rose presumed he was re-using the water she'd neglected to drain in the early hours of the morning—the water which had been left to go completely cold overnight.
With a sudden gasp for air and a dramatic splash of water, Sherlock resurfaced then immediately stood up. Water cascaded from him and journeyed southward along his lithe, pale skin in multiple rivulets. He shook out his hair and declared, his chest heaving, "I'm awake now. Towel?"
He held out a hand as Rose reached behind the door for a towel.
"What's this all about? Is this how you wake up of a morning?"
Sherlock stepped out of the tub when Rose made room for him.
"No, I'm late for an appointment," he replied, busily drying himself with the towel. "I forgot about it. Sorry, Rose."
He brushed past her, and entered his bedroom through the alternate doorway.
"What appointment?" she asked, following him into his room.
"Cake," he sighed. Sherlock dropped his towel onto the floor and crossed the room to his dresser. "I promised Mary I'd meet her at a cake shop in the Strand this morning. They'll have a few samples of wedding cake for us to try." He rummaged in his top drawer for a pair of boxers, then drew them on as he continued talking to Rose. "John's next to useless, so she can't take him. It completely slipped my mind until she sent me a reminder text."
"Oh. Okay. Did you still want your tea?" Rose asked, indicating the kitchen.
"Ah... better make it coffee. I need something stronger than tea." He suddenly flashed Rose a wide smile. "You don't mind do you? I know it's our special day together, but I shouldn't be long. How long does it take to nibble three pieces of fruit cake? Oh! Why don't you come with us?"
Rose's eyes widened minutely at the notion. "Me?"
"Yes, you. You've already met Mary, and she seems to like you. You both can have a natter about... oh, I don't know. What do you have in common?"
"You?" Rose replied, feeling unimpressed with his attempt at convincing her so far.
"Why not," Sherlock replied distractedly. He reached into his wardrobe and drew out a crisp white shirt from its hanger. As he slipped his arms into the sleeves, he turned to Rose and quipped, "You can regale each other with How Wonderful Sherlock Is stories."
"Nice try," Rose deadpanned. "But I don't think so. I'll go make your coffee."
Rose swiftly exited Sherlock's room before he tried to persuade her further. She discarded the teabag from his cup, then poured the black tea down the sink. After she'd prepared a second cup, this time a black coffee with two sugars, she left it on the bench and took her own tea, making herself comfortable in John Watson's old armchair, propping up the new Union Jack cushion behind her back. Tucking her legs underneath her, she sipped her tea, taking in the warmth of the fire.
Her quiet solitude didn't last long when the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes swept into the kitchen. He made light work of his coffee then strode past Rose into the living room.
"Perhaps you can try out some more serviette designs while I'm out," he suggested to Rose as he grabbed his Belstaff from the back of the living room door.
"I'm really not very good at following those instructions," Rose replied.
"Find some on YouTube then. You're obviously a visual learner."
Sherlock found his scarf atop a pile of magazines, and slowly wound it around his neck, while Rose stared absently into the fire. Sherlock patted his coat pockets, then drew a black leather glove out of each. As he slid one on, he remarked, "Oh, John's fine with me bringing you to the wedding."
Rose had lifted her mug to her lips, and paused before taking a sip. The whole world appeared to stop for her at this moment in time. "He what?" she asked tentatively, turning her head to Sherlock.
Unaware of Rose's inner turmoil, Sherlock's face had brightened. "He said I could bring a guest." He then reached into his jacket pocket and frowned. "Phone," he murmured to himself before concluding that it was still in his bedroom. "So that's settled it then!" he said, addressing Rose before striding determinedly toward his room.
Rose's heart stuttered, and she forced her body to meet her demands. Putting her tea down onto a side table, she rose from the armchair as Sherlock rushed back through the kitchen towards her, his phone in hand. He tapped at the keypad, muttering to himself, "Better text Mary," as he strode past Rose.
"Sherlock," she said.
Sherlock stopped in the middle of the living room. "Just - leaving - now," he said slowly, as he typed the words into the phone. With a satisfied grin, he dropped his phone into his coat pocket, then started putting on his second glove.
"Did you tell him you were bringing me, specifically?" Rose asked.
"Ah... no. But what does it matter? Imagine the look on his face when he sees you," Sherlock said pleasantly.
Yes, imagine it, Rose thought in horror.
Sherlock opened his coat to pat the breast pocket of his jacket, resulting in a furrowed brow. "Now where's my phone?"
"I don't want to go to the wedding," Rose gushed, before Sherlock could go off on a tangent again.
"Don't worry about it, Rose. You'll be fine," Sherlock said encouragingly. He reached into his coat pocket, and his face lit up once more. "Ah," he remarked upon finding the phone nestled inside. He drew it out, then relocated it into his jacket's internal breast pocket. "You already know Mrs Hudson, and Mary, and John, of course. Lestrade's a bit odd, especially when he's had a few, and I don't think Mike Stamford can make it, so you'll be safe there."
"I don't want to go, Sherlock. Listen to me."
Sherlock had opened his mouth to continue verbalising his train of thought on all of the guests who would be compatible with Rose as dinner companions, when her forceful tone threw him.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his gaze a little more attentive this time.
Rose felt her skin prickling and pressure building on her tear ducts. She wasn't ready for this conversation, but she couldn't see any way around it. As it had to be dealt with eventually, it may as well be now.
"I don't... want to go," she forced herself to say once more, struggling to keep her voice even, "… to John Watson's wedding."
She blinked, and a solitary tear escaped, which she hastily brushed away. She could no longer maintain eye contact with Sherlock and she turned from him.
Sherlock stood very still, all synapses firing now that he had received a hit of caffeine. Inability to make eye contact, or stand her ground. A silly emotional response to a name... a name from the past. A reluctance to visit Sherlock when John was here.
A wave of disappointment crested and broke along the shores of his heart. This was one deduction he didn't want to make, and his shoulders drooped with the burden.
Sherlock's voice held no emotion when he said simply, "You had sex with John Watson."
