A/N: I know... I don't usually update this fast, but I found opportunity and muse actually coinciding this weekend. Enjoy!
x
Chapter 35 - You'll Have to Make a Speech, Of Course
The hot water hammered his back, and steady streams and rivulets cascaded over his bowed head. Sherlock stood in Rose's shower stall and tried to make sense of the evening. His heart was no longer tachycardic, but his stomach still somersaulted whenever he replayed Rose's words in his mind.
Sherlock, I'm in love with you.
He blinked a couple of times to allow his mind and body to respond of their own accord. As a result, a slow grin spread across his face, and the pounding of the shower against his head began to sound like applause.
She loved him.
Sherlock closed his eyes and transported himself back to Rose's living room. Her hand had felt warm in his, her smile genuine, and her eyes glistened with affection.
I'm in love with you.
These words uttered by anyone else may have been met with ridicule, disdain and a mocking laugh. Love, of course, was one of those emotion things, in direct contrast to the pure cold reason that Sherlock held above all things. But these were spoken by Rose—a person he respected, and genuinely liked, and who never spoke carelessly.
Sherlock had once remarked that the chemistry of love was incredibly simple, and very destructive. In fact, he had said these words to the one woman who, in a way, was responsible for him meeting Rose in the first place. The Woman. The woman who repeated James Moriarty's nickname for him as if it were a flaw—the Virgin. And look how far he had come from resembling that epithet.
Yes, he understood the chemistry of love—the neurological and physiological processes. He knew how it influenced the behaviour of people, and gave them motives to commit criminal acts. But this... this declaration from Rose held so much meaning. This meant that she cared about him, too. She wasn't disgusted by his treatment of her in those early days. She had forgiven him. It meant that his efforts over the last few months—to make Rose happy, to show her how much he cared for and respected her, and to make her feel special—were all a success.
This was his reward. It was like he had been presented with a shining medal to hang around his neck.
And the gold medal for The Man Most Deserving of Love is awarded to: Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock allowed another soppy grin to grace his features again. He straightened up and turned the taps of the shower off.
...in love with you.
Yes, it was him and no other.
Of course, at the time these words had been spoken, they failed to register in Sherlock's mind. In fact, his systems had shut down; a blank screen was presented to him with nothing but a single blinking cursor in the top left-hand corner. The only other time he had gone offline, was when John Watson had told him that he, Sherlock Holmes, was his best man. His best friend. The two people that I love and care about most in the world... Mary Morstan and... you.
But Rose hadn't been concerned. It was as if she knew what was going on inside his head, or not going on as the case may be. She had huffed a tiny laugh, and leant forward, planting a soft kiss on his lips.
The kiss of life, as it turned out. Sherlock had blinked rapidly as she drew away from him. All he could utter in response was a hoarse, "I don't deserve that."
Rose's expression was soft, and her tone maybe a little condescending, when she explained to him all the reasons he deserved this. Then she had kissed him again, stood up, and said she had work to do.
"Perhaps you'd like to take a shower?" she had suggested. "I'll take my computer into the bedroom, and when I'm finished working, you can make love to me. That would be an appropriate response."
Sherlock slowly dried himself with his towel, but his spirits were light, and the idea of being loved by Rose wrapped itself around his heart as comfortably as his favourite blue scarf would entwine his neck.
He left the bathroom with the towel slung low around his hips, noting that the rest of the flat was now in darkness. Obviously Rose had retired to her bedroom, and was waiting for him to enter and make an acceptance speech or something.
But he found Rose sitting up in bed, rapidly typing away, her brow furrowed and her dressing gown wrapped around her. Sherlock cleared his throat out of nervousness, but Rose merely glanced up at him, offered a smile in acknowledgement, then turned her attention back to her screen.
Sherlock hovered by the side of the bed in a quandary. What should he do? Dress in his pyjamas, or slip into bed naked? On a normal night, the regular, original edition, unloved Sherlock Holmes would drop the towel to the ground and slide between the sheets, wrapping his naked body around Rose's equally nude form. And if she were busy working, as she was tonight, he would slide his hand between her legs until she slapped it, and told him off. Sometimes she neither slapped his hand, nor told him off. Mixed messages there.
Thus was the routine of an unloved detective genius.
The new and improved version, the Consulting Detective who was loved, dropped the towel to the ground, and slid, somewhat awkwardly between the sheets. His movements were stiff and unnatural, because a man who was the object of someone's love and affection would coordinate his body a little more skilfully, therefore he was showing himself to be a fraud.
He arranged the quilt over himself, taking care not to bump Rose's computer. He slid lower, laced his fingers together and stared at the ceiling. There was an intermittent silence only punctuated by soft sighs from Rose when she was reading whatever message she was receiving in response. Then the rapid typing would start again. Sherlock continued studying the stark white ceiling, but tried to analyse Rose's actions in the periphery of his vision.
"Are you going to lie there like a corpse all night?" she eventually asked him.
"I don't know what else to do," was his immediate uncensored response as his eyes remained fixed on the roof.
Rose tapped away some more before closing the lid of her laptop. She placed it on her bedside table, then turned to face Sherlock, shuffling closer.
"This doesn't have to change anything between us," she remarked, snuggling into his neck and planting a soft kiss on her lover's cheek.
"How could it not?" he asked, not daring to meet her eyes. His face grew heated with her touch. Every gesture felt strange now. Every move was heralded with a big banner that proclaimed, I'm in love with you. While nice, it obviously required communication protocols with which he was not familiar.
To Sherlock's annoyance, Rose chuckled lightly and gently slid her hand underneath the quilt. She rubbed his chest affectionately and brushed her lips against his cheek once more.
"Just because I've told you that I love you, doesn't mean I expect anything different from you. And I don't expect you to return the sentiment. This is something I wanted to say because I think it's important to let you know how I feel right now, after everything that's happened between us. I know you don't say such things, and I don't expect you to. I love you because of everything you've already done for me. I love you for being yourself. Just keep acting the same way."
Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned his head, meeting Rose's gaze. "But sometimes I come back from Bart's at three in the morning. I don't even ring you to say where I am."
"So?" Rose asked, keeping a straight-face but smiling internally at Sherlock's literal interpretation of her suggestion.
"So you don't want me to stop doing that?"
"You don't do that all the time. And I have a vague idea where you are and what you're up to. But of course, if you've been lying to me all this time, and you were actually fucking somebody else, well..." Rose said, rising on her elbow, and sliding her hand suggestively along Sherlock's torso. "… you're going to have to stop doing that."
"I s'pose I could stop fucking all of the female nurses on nightshift," Sherlock drawled. "Won't do morale any good though."
A tiny laugh escaped Rose, and she leant forward, capturing Sherlock's lips with hers. "Lucky nurses," she whispered, in between delivering light kisses to the detective.
Her other hand stole lower, and Sherlock hummed against her mouth in approval. He lifted his hands and cradled her face as he deepened their kiss.
So this is the aftermath of Rose declaring her love for me, he thought. So far, so good.
But Sherlock strove to obtain the upper hand, so to speak, and show Rose what he was still capable of. With the coordination of his former self, Sherlock out-manoeuvred his lover, and had her on her back, emitting soft sighs of pleasure—music to his ears. His ravenous mouth and dextrous fingertips attended to Rose's every need, until she finally gave herself over to the cascade of sensations he delivered to her.
She returned the favour in quick time, feasting on Sherlock until the build up of ecstasy became unbearable. His orgasm only preceded Rose's instant message alert by mere seconds.
Out of breath, his chest heaving, Sherlock quipped, "You really should get that."
A delightfully wonderful addition was made to Sherlock and Rose's goodbye routine. Sherlock would rumble, "Goodbye Rose," then deliver a tender kiss. Next Rose would bid him a goodbye, then whisper, "I love you," giving Sherlock's heart a welcome kick-start. Finally he would deliver another kiss in acknowledgement.
This new routine was invoked almost daily, depending on their respective movements. But if it was interrupted, by, for example, Rose reminding Sherlock that she would be home late because the staff at the entertainment store were going out for drinks to celebrate Sunil's birthday, then they would have to start the ritual again. Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.
On the last Saturday in March, this farewell routine took place far too early as far as Rose was concerned. She was due to work at the store all day, and Saturdays usually commenced with her farewells to Sherlock as he lay in bed. This time, he was awake hours before Rose's usual wake time.
This Saturday, Sherlock was offering his services to the time keepers of Big Ben. The last Sunday in March was the commencement of British Summer Time, and the team responsible for winding the Great Clock forward had to do the same with over two thousand clocks around the Parliamentary Estate. They would start early on a Saturday morning with the clocks scattered around the Palace of Westminster and Portcullis House, then turn the lights off the clockface of the Elizabeth Tower at 10pm. They'd wind the hands forward to midnight, but not restart the clock until the new midnight. Giving themselves two hours to test that the time was correct, they wouldn't turn the clockface lights back on until 2am. Any office clocks that hadn't been changed by that time would be finished in the wee hours of Sunday morning.
Sherlock, of course, saw this as an opportunity to have a snoop around the offices of the country's peers and MPs, on the off-chance that he would find interesting snippets of information about some of them. This time, however, there were three offices in particular to which he was interested in gaining access—the office of the member for Rockwell South, John Garvie, the party Chief Whip's office, and of course, the office of Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock was still on a fact-finding mission about the one man who had destroyed Rose's spirit, once upon a time. Sherlock didn't expect to find anything incriminating in the MP's Parliamentary office, but it was a good basis to start with. In years gone by, it was the party's Chief Whip who held the so-called "Dirt Books" on party members, listing indiscretions in order to use them against the offenders so they'd toe the party line. Officially, such books or files were no longer kept. Unofficially, the opposite was true, and Sherlock was hoping to find entries pertaining to Rose's seedy former client—indiscretions of a political nature, and not of a deviant sexual history. Sherlock already knew all of those sordid details, and he hoped nobody else had documented it.
Take the Chief Whip's Dirt Book, multiply it ten-fold, and you have the Secret Files of Mycroft Holmes. Not only would Sherlock ensure his brother's clock was out by five minutes, as was his custom, he would also raid the minor Government official's filing cabinets for any dirt on Garvie. And Sherlock knew where all of the secret panels, hideaways and undocumented passageways were.
Rose only stirred slightly when Sherlock kissed her cheek and said, "Goodbye Rose." He attempted to brush her lips with his, before trailing light kisses over her face, along her jawline, and the sensitive areas of her neck. He bid her goodbye once more, and she only hummed in response. This was not good enough. Sherlock needed to hear her tell him she loved him. This was his fix for the day. He nudged her some more, and made his kisses linger. Rose stirred and rolled to her back.
"Rose," Sherlock prompted. When there was no further response, he leant over her, and raised his voice. "Rose!"
Rose was awake in an instant. She propped herself up on her elbows and exclaimed, "Oh, God! What?" She stared wide-eyed and bewildered at Sherlock.
The detective lowered his voice to an acceptable first-thing-in-the-morning level. "I'm going now."
"What?" Rose gasped in exasperation. She slumped back downwards and rolled to her side. "Fuck," she murmured. "So just go already."
Sherlock thrust out his bottom lip, brooding. This wasn't the farewell he had signed up for. He kissed her again, sweetly, tenderly, until she parted her lips and he dove inside. When she lazily wound her arms around his neck he withdrew. It was time.
"Goodbye, Rose."
"Why did you wake me and get me all worked up, if you're leaving now?" she sleepily grumbled.
"I have to go," Sherlock reiterated, ignoring Rose's complaint. "And don't forget I may be late tonight. I won't be able to run your bath for you."
"That's okay," she murmured, then rolled onto her side once more.
"Goodbye, Rose," Sherlock repeated, struggling to keep his voice light and casual. He was setting the world record for the number of times he had farewelled her in one morning.
Just say the fucking words.
"Mmm, goodbye Sherlock."
Sherlock hovered over her, and raised his eyebrows, counting the seconds as they ticked by. Rose sensed his looming presence and opened her eyes, turning her head to look up at him. "What?"
Sherlock's eyes grew dark and huge, and his shoulders slumped just a little. A sly smile grew on Rose's face and she reached for him. Carding her fingers through his curls, she whispered, "I love you, Sherlock."
Sherlock's face split into a broad grin. About fucking time! He leant forward and pressed his lips to Rose's. She responded in kind, and held him to her so he couldn't make a quick getaway. She was wide awake now, and she was demanding more from Sherlock's goodbye kiss then he had originally intended to give.
Sherlock understood what was happening here, and reluctantly pulled away from her.
"I'll be late," he said, his voice a little rough around the edges. He tutted and rolled his eyes. The goodbye ritual was broken, and Rose knew it too, judging by the tiny fire that was lit in her eyes.
"Come back to bed," she said enticingly.
"I'm supposed to be there in half an hour."
"You're winding the clocks back, so technically you have an hour and a half."
"The clocks are going forward," Sherlock said through narrow eyes.
Rose arched a seductive eyebrow. "Come finish what you started," she said in a half-whisper.
"Rose, I'm fully dressed."
The temptress reached out and threaded her fingers through Sherlock's. "Is your hand?"
Sherlock was delayed another fifteen minutes. Rose chuckled when she realised what state he was in as he made to depart. As the Consulting Detective grabbed a cab around the corner from Leinster Gardens, he vowed that the next time he serviced Rose right before he was due to leave, he must remember to take a mental trip to the Himalayas so he himself didn't become aroused at watching Rose come undone.
His twelve hours work in The Palace of Westminster yielded a small hint of a scandal. John Garvie's expense account wasn't quite up to scratch, and the MP's communication with a certain building contractor raised eyebrows. Still, Sherlock would have to break into the man's constituency office in Rockwell South if he was going to find further evidence of corruption. Something for a later date then.
Wedding preparations reached a feverish pitch once March turned into April. The stress brought by the potential logistics surrounding John's stag night was alleviated when Rose suggested that Sherlock, as John's best man and best friend, take John out for a drink himself—just the two of them, with no chance for the night to degenerate into debauchery according to the lowest common denominator. If John wanted to have an evening out drinking with his hospital buddies or ex-army mates, then he could do so on a separate occasion without Sherlock's presence.
Sherlock set about choosing a suitable theme, so that the night could be elevated beyond a simple drinks at the pub scenario. He even asked Molly Hooper if she could help him calculate his and John's ideal alcohol intake so they could "remain in the sweet spot" the whole evening, and not get ill, thus spoiling the mood. The stag night was to take place one week before the wedding.
Rose was becoming worried about Sherlock's mental state. He could remain in an extreme state of agitation for hours at a time if plans weren't coming along according to his specifications. When the DJ called to cancel, due to being double-booked, Sherlock sulked for three days. Rose tried to tell him to not take it as a personal rejection, but the detective remained on her sofa, with his back to her and sighed loudly every so often. She'd never seen a grown man behave in such an immature manner before.
When she had to go to work, Sherlock woke while she was having a shower, and positioned himself on her sofa once more, so he could make an obvious visual display about being upset. She gave him a kiss on the cheek anyway, and said goodbye. He said nothing until she was just about to exit through her front door.
"You didn't say I love you," he sullenly informed her.
"I didn't think you even noticed I was leaving," Rose replied, stifling a laugh. She made her way back over to him, and sat on the edge of the sofa as he rolled onto his back. "Goodbye Sherlock," she whispered, bending over him and delivering a kiss onto his lips. "I love you."
She could see that Sherlock was pretending that her effort was only just passable. She knew he was thrilled every time she uttered those three words.
"What are you going to do today?" she asked, thinking she had a few extra minutes before she had to catch the tube to the entertainment store. She didn't mind having to repeat their farewell ritual.
Sherlock sighed heavily, then shrugged. "I dunno. Plot the downfall of a particular DJ."
"Look, why don't you have a break from wedding preparations. I can find a DJ. You can work through all those cases people have been emailing."
"Oh. Dull," Sherlock sighed. "And how can you find a DJ? There aren't any acceptable ones left."
"It depends on your definition of acceptable. And anyway, you were only working through the list of wedding DJs. There are plenty who don't actually specify just weddings. I know a couple from when I jumped out of a cake. They do stag nights, 21sts—"
"Totally inappropriate. We need a wedding DJ. Not someone who can play bawdy music to some woman getting her kit off."
Rose chuckled lightly. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock. It's just music. They'll play whatever John and Mary want."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nineties disco music."
"So? That's fine if that's what they want. Just leave it with me, okay?"
"Fine," Sherlock replied sullenly.
Rose squeezed Sherlock's hand affectionately. She had been working on distracting him with something else for three days, and this was the first time he had agreed to anything.
"Why don't you continue working on your speech?" she suggested. "Did you get very far? Did you find that book at all helpful?"
Sherlock tutted. It seemed that the only tasks left were those he had been striving to avoid.
"I made a start," he replied. "But then I got stuck. The book was useless in that regard."
"How much have you written?"
"I haven't written anything. It's all in my head."
Rose's expression softened, and she smiled at Sherlock encouragingly. "So let's hear it."
Sherlock pulled himself up a little, and cleared his throat. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Family and Friends, and..."
The Consulting Detective looked up at Rose expectantly.
"And what?" she asked.
"And that's it," he replied. "Well, the book says something about adding 'Distinguished Guests' if there are any, which there aren't. And on further analysis, most of the people who don't belong to the Family and Friends category, don't necessarily belong to the Ladies and Gentlemen category either. Some of them are practically savages."
"Sherlock, it doesn't matter. It's just an opening to your speech."
Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "If I'm going to start categorising people in my speech, then I can't just leave people out. Do you know how my mind works at all?"
"I think I do," Rose replied, struggling to remain as serious as Sherlock appeared to be.
"When I walk into a room full of people, my mind automatically assesses each and every one of them. If my speech commences with putting people into very specific groups, then I'm going to keep categorising until everybody fits. Do you see my problem?"
"I do. Quite clearly."
"The research I've conducted to date about each wedding guest has generated a list of common personality types such as strategic thinkers, innovators, strong-willed leaders, mediators—"
"Sherlock—"
"Well you know all about that, being a psychology graduate. And then there's another list of personality traits. Using a logic grid, I can mark off each trait against—"
"Sherlock—"
"Naturally there are overlaps. If I can just isolate—"
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock frowned at being interrupted during his recitation of his thought processes.
Rose gently caressed his hand to reduce his stress levels. She could see that he was going to get himself worked up again.
"It really doesn't matter," she said gently. "At this point in your speech, it's only meant as a general greeting. Just lump everybody else into another category and get on with it."
"Another category for everybody else?" Sherlock repeated in distaste.
"Yes. Just... you know... 'Ladies and Gentlemen, Family and Friends, and... Others.'"
"Others?"
"Yes. Why not? If you start looking around and seeing the guests as—"
"Adulterers, Liars and Incontinent Sufferers."
"Something like that," Rose laughed. "Just catch yourself by naming them as Others. Okay?"
Sherlock redirected his gaze to the ceiling, as if this was something he had to consider for a while. Rose bit her lip to prevent herself from laughing again. She could see that composing Sherlock's Best Man speech was going to be a long and painful process. For them both.
"Okay, I have to go," she said, standing up and smoothing out her skirt.
Sherlock sat up and swung his legs to the ground. He bowed his head and ruffled his hair.
"How about I help you with your speech when I get home tonight?" Rose suggested. "You can spend the day coming up with funny stories about John."
"Funny stories about John?" Sherlock asked, looking up at her, perplexed. He rose from the couch and reached for her. He wanted to make sure their farewell stuck to protocol.
"Did you read much of that book at all?" Rose asked.
"Yes," Sherlock said emphatically. "It mentioned anecdotes or some rubbish."
"Yes, anecdotes, about you and John, or some about John specifically. It's more entertaining if they're funny. Ring his other friends. They must have some stories you can use. Okay?"
"Fine."
Rose smiled. She was making progress in her bid to pull Sherlock out of his dark place. She twined her arms around his neck and felt warmed when Sherlock banded his arms around her waist.
"Goodbye Rose," he said, the last remnants of his massive sulk practically disappearing.
"Bye Sherlock," Rose responded, narrowing the gap between them and touching her lips to Sherlock's. "I love you."
Rose was relieved to receive Sherlock's smile at long last. But they still had just over one month until the wedding. She didn't know how he was going to cope in the days leading up to it. But worse than that, what would he do with himself once the wedding was over?
Sherlock padded to the bathroom once Rose had left for the tube. Funny stories about John. How hard could that be? Sherlock decided to shower and dress, then leave for Baker Street. He would strive to make good progress on his speech this morning by documenting all of the times John came up with an incorrect deduction. It would be hilarious.
When Rose returned home that evening, she found Sherlock sitting at the dining table, tapping away on her computer.
"Hello," she said, bending down and kissing his forehead before hurrying into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. "Busting for the loo."
Sherlock barely looked up as Rose deposited her shopping onto the kitchen counter. She swiftly exited into the small passageway that lead to her bathroom. When she returned, she had already shed her work clothes, and was tying her dressing gown around what Sherlock assumed was her undergarments.
"Have you been here all day?" Rose asked.
"Come on Rose. You can make a better deduction than that," Sherlock challenged without looking up from the screen.
Rose began unpacking her shopping while she gave Sherlock the once over.
"Different shirt from this morning," she began.
"I was in pyjamas this morning."
"Well, it's a different shirt to yesterday's then."
"Excellent. You're on fire so far."
Rose smiled to herself. Sherlock was showing some of his old spark again. He must've had a good day.
"Have you been working on your speech? And before you come back with a sarcastic remark, no I can't see your screen from here."
Sherlock sighed, and commenced typing in earnest. "A bit," he replied in a low voice. He wanted to avoid talking about his speech for the moment.
Rose deposited her milk and a box of eggs in the fridge. She grabbed the kettle, checked its water level, then flicked the switch. As she came back to Sherlock, she remarked, "I heard on the news that the police were holding some kind of anti-terror training in Baker Street. Did you see it?"
Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and swore under his breath. "No."
Not noticing his non-verbal response, Rose took the seat across from him and idly picked up his Best Man Speech book. Flicking through it, she continued. "Some kind of mock drill. Perhaps it was in the Underground at the Baker Street station?"
"Mm," he replied non-commitedly. Damn Lestrade, Sherlock thought in reflection. What was the man thinking?
"Some SWAT vehicles and a bomb squad I heard. Lots of drama." Rose lay the book aside and drifted back to the kitchen. "One of the salesmen said there was even a helicopter. How could it manage to land in Baker Street? Are you sure you didn't hear anything?"
Sherlock remained reticent. How could the Scotland Yard Detective Inspector mistake Sherlock's text, asking for assistance in compiling amusing anecdotes about John Watson, for a request to launch a full-scale tactical response outside his flat?
There was silence as Rose prepared two mugs of tea.
"I've found a DJ," she informed Sherlock after a fashion.
"Oh good. What's their name? Surname first please."
Rose looked around from her tea preparations. Sherlock had opened his file containing his notes and lists for the wedding.
"Are you going to check up on him?"
"No," Sherlock said curtly. "There's no time. I'm adding the DJ to my other list."
"What do you mean, 'there's no time?' You've got over a month to go. And what other list?"
"Background checks take longer than you think." Sherlock held up a sheet of paper and said, "This is my list of suspects."
"Suspects for what?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Have you forgotten the attack on John Watson on Guy Fawkes Night?"
"Oh," Rose responded in a small voice. That list. "So who's on it so far?"
"Well, your DJ, obviously. Mary's changed her hairdresser at the last minute, so the replacement has made the list. The three bridesmaids, purely because I wasn't allowed to conduct a background check on them at all. And I've underlined the Maid of Honour, because she won't even be at the Rehearsal Dinner. I won't meet her until the day of the wedding. Very suspicious. Busy with work, apparently."
"What does she do?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Some kind of P.A. John said she has to follow her boss in his travels all over Europe. You've should've seen the look Mary gave John at letting slip that tiny snippet of information. You'd think it was a state secret. Anyway, two of the staff at the Sutton Mallet B&B have made the list. Then there's David the ex-boyfriend, also underlined, plus the photographer that John organised. I haven't even seen his portfolio. John's hopeless."
"A small list of suspects then," Rose quipped.
"Name?" Sherlock repeated, his pen poised to record the details of the dubious-sounding DJ.
Rose told Sherlock to hunt around in her handbag for the DJ's business card, since all of his details were listed there. Sherlock busily scrawled away, once he'd found the card, then deposited his file on the other side of the computer. He closed the lid and then rose from the table.
"Oh, where did you want this?" Rose asked as she came toward him with both mugs of tea.
"I'll join you on the sofa," Sherlock said pleasantly. "I've had enough for one day. It's time for cuddling."
Rose was charmed by Sherlock's irresistible smile. They usually had cuddle-time when neither of them could be bothered doing any more work in the evening. They would settle down together on her sofa, rather sedately with their cups of tea. Sherlock would deduce every character on telly, and Rose would confirm or deny his deductions with either her knowledge of the actors, or by searching the internet. Sherlock was wrong most of the time, due to the talent of the actors in inhabiting the characters they played. Sherlock didn't quite understand the entertainment industry.
Once they'd consumed their tea, they would lie down and snuggle while they continued their game. Now and again, they would pause for a quick snog, and by the end of the evening, they would both decide it was time to take their rather heated antics to the bedroom.
Tonight, though, they spent more time cuddling and kissing than playing spot the bad actor. As Sherlock coaxed increasingly primitive responses out of Rose, she sighed an I love you.
Sherlock lifted his head in hearing Rose's declaration uttered without the correct precursor. "I'm not going anywhere," he remarked.
"I know," she sighed, running her fingers through his hair. "And I'm glad."
Sherlock grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. When his mouth lowered again to hers, he wondered what it would feel like to utter those three little words back to her.
