Chapter 37 - Rubbish at Wedding Planning

Sherlock slowly rose from the sofa, his head buzzing with the last echoes of Rose's rant.

What had just happened then?

Sherlock was confused. Was she upset about the swan, and not his comment about having sex a thousand times? Was she fine with him ridiculing her clients, and having the TV on at such an ear-splitting volume? Is that what her little speech meant?

He bent down and retrieved the duck-swan. It wasn't bad for her fifteenth effort, he thought. Perhaps if its neck was slightly longer it would look less duck-like. Surely Rose could see that? Perhaps he should tell her. A bit of constructive criticism never hurt anyone.

Sherlock confidently strode toward Rose's bedroom.

Ill-mannered selfish orgasm. What was that about? How can an orgasm be ill-mannered?

Finding Rose's bedroom door shut, Sherlock gently knocked.

"Go away!"

He tried the door handle anyway. If Rose had been at all serious about wanting him to leave her alone, she would've locked the door. Obvious.

"Rose... I... er..."

Sherlock paused in the doorway. The sight of Rose lying on her side under the covers, with tear-stained eyes, reminded him of the time she had shut him out of her life because she had been distraught about her previous occupation as a prostitute. Was she going to do that again?

Every muscle in Sherlock's body suddenly went rigid, and his throat began to constrict.

Rose rolled over onto her back, then pulled herself up to a sitting position against the headboard. Her gazed dropped to the object hanging loosely in Sherlock's hand.

"You think I'm upset about the swan?" she said, her voice sounding a little bit strained.

Sherlock momentarily forgot he was holding the napkin. But here was a clue, he thought. She wasn't upset about the stupid thing. The swan was a red herring!

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly, and forced himself to move his legs so he could enter the bedroom.

"No, of course not," he said in a low voice, shoving the napkin into his pocket. "You're upset about my ill-mannered orgasm."

"What?"

"And me reminding you that you've had sex way more times than I have, and you didn't enjoy it on every occasion."

"Sherlock."

"And your clients..."

"Sherlock, just stop it. Stop trying to guess."

"I never guess."

When Rose sighed deeply, and lowered her gaze to the bed, Sherlock's gut twisted involuntarily.

She is disappointed in me, he thought. But about what?

Rose looked up at Sherlock once more.

"That's just it, Sherlock. You didn't think to ask."

Sherlock's shoulders drooped. He didn't like the way Rose was looking at him. He didn't ask? Why should he ask? He was good at deducing... wasn't he?

When he remained silent, Rose continued. "You didn't think to ask why I'm a bit out of sorts this evening, and the reason you didn't wonder, is because everything is wrapped up in that fucking wedding. That's all you can think about. And even when you've got everything organised within an inch of its life, you manage to find some other fucking drama to go with it."

Sherlock felt his skin prickle. He had no idea that his endeavours seemed so ridiculous to Rose. He didn't know how to immediately react to her words, and he dropped his gaze to the bed. Rose brought her knees up under the covers, and hugged them.

"I don't want to hear any more about the wedding tonight," she continued. When Sherlock's eyes met hers again, she added, "I thought I could cope, but I just... can't. You've done so much for John, and I don't think he appreciates just how much time you're spending worrying about it all. I wish you would stop, because I don't need that on top of everything else."

"So, why..." Sherlock began. He was at a complete loss as to what was expected of him. Was it too late for him to ask what was upsetting Rose, or was it just his attention to the wedding details that was the problem? And what was so wrong with being thorough anyway? The world was full of incompetent morons, and he was finding more of them as the days went by.

"I don't want to talk about it," Rose replied, with an air of finality in her tone.

"Jesus Christ," Sherlock muttered under his breath, dropping his head, before turning away from her. He paused a moment, and reconsidered his decision to leave the room. She wasn't the only one getting a bit pissed off. "You know, I really detest riddles," Sherlock said to her. "Hate them, in fact. And despite Jim Moriarty—may he not be resting in peace—despite the criminal mastermind strongly suggesting I learn to like them, I don't have to. So this," he said, flippantly waving a hand in Rose's direction, "I find extremely irritating. This little mysterious episode of yours."

Rose sat up straighter, her expression hardening even though her eyes were glistening with tears.

"Just leave," she said quietly.

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. "No," he said. "I'm not leaving. You're not banning me from seeing you again."

"I'm not banning you... Sherlock, just leave my bedroom. Leave me in peace to wallow in self-pity."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, fixing Rose with a challenging glare.

"Because," Rose began, before faltering under his harsh gaze. "Because it's... it's just stupid."

Sherlock's expression softened and his heart sank at seeing the turmoil on Rose's face. He lowered himself to the bed, sitting down next to Rose's legs. Extending an arm to her other side, he leant over her.

"Rose," he said warmly, "I'm a ridiculous man, but I'm redeemed every time you utter those three words to me. You told me why I deserved your love, so don't push me away now. Not when I'm capable of so much more."

Rose's eyes pooled with tears, and she attempted to brush them away. She sniffed, then took a moment to compose herself. Her guilt for pushing Sherlock away again eclipsed her own need to wallow.

"I asked for a promotion today," she began, giving Sherlock a wan smile. "I really thought I deserved it, but clearly not based on the very negative response I was given."

"The promotion you wanted, which would give you the chance to resign from the Rendezvous?"

"Yes," Rose replied, sniffing again. "She gave me a flat No—the store managerbut thanked me for drawing attention to the fact that the accounts department no longer had a senior accounts clerk. Gus, the fat fuck, who has sat his fat fucking arse in that same fucking seat for five fucking years has tenure over me. Tenure! He has seniority because he can barely move his arse out of that chair to ever think about getting a job elsewhere. And not only that, she says he conveys a more professional image of the accounts department at Roches, because his counterpart, Rosemarie fucking skanky Sulford, is busy getting her kit off every weekend when she checks coats and sucks cock at a strip joint in Shoreditch. Not quite the background the Store Manager wants a prospective Accounts Manager at Roches Home Entertainment to have."

"But you don't—"

"I told her ages ago that I worked there, so she'd understand if I had to close the store then hightail it to my second job. She'd be less likely to ask if I could stay back an extra hour or two to dick around with the accounts if she knew I had somewhere else to be. I didn't think she'd hold it against me."

"But she accused you of sucking cock?" Sherlock asked, slightly horrified.

In spite of her situation, Rose found herself smiling at hearing Sherlock's use of the term. "She didn't use those words exactly. I've always had the impression that she thinks my job as a cloakroom attendant is just a cover for actually stripping."

"Yes, but you're only stripping the club patrons of their coats."

Rose smiled ruefully in response, then she sighed deeply and reached for Sherlock's arm. Rubbing it affectionately, she said, "Well, that was my shitty afternoon. Usually I can brush off those interesting observations of yours; I'm getting used to it. I can even manage to laugh sometimes. But tonight I'm feeling a bit delicate, and right now I just want to curl up into a ball and feel sorry for myself."

"You don't need to feel sorry for yourself. What you need is someone to shower you with affection." Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile. "And I know just the man for the job." He leant forward and lightly kissed Rose on the forehead. Keeping close, he murmured, "First I'm going to apologise for my thoughtless comments, before I order you some dinner from that place around the corner that you like—the place run by those idiots who can't manage to deliver. I'll go pick it up and when I get back, I'll bring you your computer, so you can work in here without listening to my clever thoughts about the world. I'll bring you your cup of tea once you start work, and then I'll just watch telly, and fall asleep on the sofa. And when you finish at 2am, you can kiss me awake, after which we'll come back to the bedroom and make love—not a selfish orgasm in sight. How does that sound?"

Rose's face had slowly brightened with Sherlock outlining his evening's agenda, and she hiccupped one final sob, before pulling Sherlock down to deliver a tender kiss. When they drew apart, Rose hastily wiped away her remaining tears, prompting Sherlock to reach into his pocket and offer her a crumpled serviette in the shape of a duck.

The evening panned out just as Sherlock had promised. And when Rose left her bedroom at 1:52am in order to kiss her sleeping prince awake, she found him fast asleep on the sofa, while all about him on the floor, coffee table and the armchair were ninety-six white, paper napkin roses.


Rose undertook her duties diligently, and whenever something complicated was asked of her, she referred the request to her superior, Gus. She'd had enough of performing above and beyond what was expected of her.

Roches could go fuck itself.

That afternoon, Rose took Tonya's puppies for a walk herself. Ms Small was a bit under the weather, so Rose volunteered to take the dogs out, and in exchange, Tonya offered to cook Rose a meal. It didn't matter whether Sherlock would be around or not; he most likely wouldn't need to eat, Rose reasoned, and Tonya didn't expect Rose to actually dine with her. She could return the crockery later.

Rose was thankful that at least two meals this week had been provided by others—the meal Sherlock ordered last night, and Tonya's home-cooked chicken soup tonight. Rose was going to have to live a lot more frugally after she finished up at the strip club. Despite receiving no promotion or pay rise from the home entertainment store, she was still going to go ahead and resign from her employment at the strip club. Morally, it was the right thing to do, and her presence there was causing her more problems elsewhere in her life. She would give two week's notice.

Sherlock, however, didn't arrive at Leinster Gardens until well after 11pm, when Rose was seated at her dining table, messaging a young girl who had been the victim of cyber-bullying on social media.

Rose looked up briefly from her screen, and smiled in acknowledgement of Sherlock's arrival. The detective shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, crossing the room to kiss Rose on the top of her head. "I had a case."

"Really?" Rose asked, pausing her typing to look up at Sherlock in interest.

Sherlock continued on to the kitchen. He could do with a cuppa after the long day he had experienced.

"I've just come back from the hospital," he said, without turning around as he filled the kettle.

"The hospital? Is everything all right?"

Sherlock turned around and leant against the kitchen bench, crossing one leg over the other as he faced Rose. "One of the Royal Household Guard—stabbed while he was taking a shower. No murder weapon, no motive, no suspects. A perfect locked room mystery, and I haven't a clue."

"Goodness! So what—"

"Finish your work," Sherlock said, gesturing toward Rose's computer. "I can tell you all the details afterwards. Tea?"

Rose appreciated Sherlock understanding that she needed to keep corresponding with her client.

He quietly made their cups of tea, then drifted into the living room. Instead of stretching out along the sofa, remote control in hand, he sat upright, and preceded to tap away on his phone. He had a lot of research to do in terms of locked room mysteries, and sharp force traumas using long, slender weapons. The case was both intriguing and irritating.

Sherlock changed his position several times during the course of the night. He'd stand up and pace, mutter to himself, sink down onto the armchair, stand up again while he stared at his tiny screen, and then he'd pace some more. Finally, he grabbed his coat and headed out to the balcony for a smoke.

When he re-entered the flat, he found Rose slumped over the table, resting her head on her arms.

"Are you 'right?" he asked, shedding his coat at the same time that he approached her.

"Tired," she replied without raising her head.

Sherlock draped his coat over a dining chair. He leant over Rose, rubbed her arm and murmured, "Bed," before kissing her on the temple.

"Cigarettes," she muttered, having smelled the residual smoke about Sherlock's person.

Sherlock picked up Rose's computer and disconnected it from its charger.

"Come on," he bid her, tucking the laptop under his arm. "I'll prod you awake if your little message thingy beeps. I've got research to do and I need a bigger screen."

They retired to Rose's bedroom, with Rose crawling underneath the quilt after sleepily stripping down to her underwear and murmuring, "I'll just close my eyes for a minute." Sherlock shed his own clothes, opting to dress in his pyjamas since he planned on staying awake a lot longer.

He sat up in bed, leaning against a couple of pillows propped up for support and balanced Rose's computer on his lap. The issue of Private Bainbridge's stalker swam around his mind. Surely there'd be something caught on CCTV cameras, if only he could locate all of the footage taken whenever Bainbridge was on duty. Sherlock and John had spent hours at the hospital waiting to question the unfortunate Royal Household Guard to no avail. Bainbridge's stab wound to the abdomen had caused extensive damage to his liver, and he was in a critical condition as a result.

The army and police had pretty much shut Sherlock out of investigations. Bainbridge was his client, after all, and the case he was supposed to be investigating was the man's stalker, not his attacker. But surely they were one and the same?

When Rose's message centre pinged with an active client, Sherlock heaved a sigh in irritation. He looked over to Rose, noting that she was heavily asleep. As it was a quarter to two, it seemed such a shame to wake her. Surely he could just...

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the caller ID—RiverSPond99. He typed, Hi, as he had seen Rose do on numerous occasions, then waited while her client took some time to type the next message. When Sherlock read the rather detailed account, he rolled his eyes, then shut the laptop lid. Clearly he was not equipped for this type of work if his first instinct was to type a rather scathing reply.

He deposited the computer onto his bedside table, then turned to gently rub Rose's back. When she stirred, Sherlock informed her that she had a client.

"What time is it?" she asked, only half opening her eyes.

"Just before two."

"That's not fair," she murmured in resignation.

Rose threw back the quilt, and stood, before stretching and making to leave the room.

"Your computer's here," Sherlock called after her.

"I know. Just going to splash my face with water," she replied.

As Rose disappeared into the darkened flat, Sherlock decided he needed another hit of nicotine. He was getting nowhere. By time he returned from the balcony, Rose was just placing her computer on her bedside table and looking quite awake.

"All done," she said. "How did you go? Get it all solved?"

"I can't really do anything until I can question Private Bainbridge."

"What happened, exactly?" Rose asked as Sherlock slid underneath the quilt beside her.

He started recounting the details of the attempted murder in Wellington Barracks, and John's role in saving the life of Bainbridge.

"I was lost in the mystery of the crime," Sherlock said in reflection. "While John was, as ever, concerned for the victim."

"Sounds like you work well together then," Rose said, a hint of a smile gracing her lips, as she rested her chin on Sherlock's chest and looked up at him.

Sherlock continued gazing at the ceiling while he automatically curled his arm around Rose and rubbed her back.

"Well I had to get John out of the flat this morning," he added, before turning his eyes to Rose. "He was going half-mad with all these decisions he's supposedly had to make for the wedding. Distracting him with a case was the least I could do for his mental health."

Rose's smile broadened, and she stretched up to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"He's so lucky having such a thoughtful friend," she whispered. "Have you finished all of your decision-making then?"

"Just waiting for a couple more RSVPs, then Mary and I can finalise the seating arrangements for the reception."

"And did she choose a serviette?"

Sherlock studied Rose's eyes, which were glistening with interest. A sly smile grew on his own face as he held her close.

"Yes," he replied, the timbre of his voice taking a rough edge. "She did."

"Which one did she choose?"

Sherlock thought about the rest of the night and the different ways he could distract himself from the frustrating case for a time. For that, he would need a willing and enthusiastic partner.

"She chose the swan," he lied.


"Then you can read them straight from the cards," Rose began, pausing in her endeavours to transfer emails that Sherlock had received onto index cards.

"So why not call them emails?" Sherlock huffed from the vicinity of his couch.

"Because it's a wedding tradition. Everyone knows what telegrams are."

"Except everyone's perpetuating an archaic method of communication, passing it down from one generation to the next like some fossilised relay baton," Sherlock muttered.

He was exhausted. Having Rose type up an outline for his Best Man's speech, then having to explain to her why every single element was pointless, was doing his head in. He told her repeatedly that he could store the speech in his mind, but Rose had insisted on the prompt cards.

"So after the telegrams," she said, referring to a document she had been updating on Sherlock's computer, "You can say some nice things about John, perhaps how honoured you are to have been chosen as his best man."

Sherlock sighed loudly, then turned to face the back of the couch, rearranging his dressing gown around him.

"And then offer congratulations on his marriage to Mary, and say a few words about how wonderful the wedding has been so far."

In a sudden burst of activity, Sherlock turned around, then sat up. Planting his feet on the ground, he bowed his head and vigorously ruffled his hair.

"Rubbish," he said on an exhale.

"Which is why you're going to read from the cards," Rose said, turning to him with a smile. "To stop yourself saying whatever immediately comes to mind."

"A wedding is—"

"Not to be discussed by Sherlock Holmes on this occasion."

Sherlock tutted and rose from the couch.

"I need tea," he murmured. "Or something seven percent stronger."

"And then talk about John," Rose continued, ignoring Sherlock's mini-sulk. "Here would be a good place to include something special about your relationship with him... so anecdotes, perhaps?" she called to the detective as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Sherlock reappeared behind John's chair, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"How about that amusing little anecdote about John snogging with some woman in Baker Street, finally managing to entice her up to his bedroom for a romp in the sack, and then subsequently passing out? What makes the story even more hilarious is when he learns she's a prostitute the next morning."

"Yes, very funny."

Sherlock disappeared once more into the kitchen, as Rose continued writing his prompt cards.

This particular Sunday had started out promising. They had slept in, after their usual extra-late Saturday night routine where Rose would return from the Rendezvous, and relax in Sherlock's tub. This time, she had been absorbed in her own morose thoughts, having given the strip club notice of her resignation. She would finish up next weekend.

When they eventually finished their early morning snuggle, Sherlock practically leapt from his bed, driven by a new enthusiasm to teach Rose to waltz while he was still compiling a selection of traditional wedding waltzes for the newly married couples' first dance.

Rose reluctantly agreed, with Sherlock teaching her the basic steps while he merely counted 1-2-3 during his instruction. When they graduated to Sherlock humming a tune, Rose suggested he choose that piece as one of the selections to give John and Mary because it sounded nice, whereupon Sherlock informed her that he'd made it up on the spot. He then froze, as an idea seized his mind. He completely abandoned his attempt at teaching Rose how to dance—something she was immediately thankful for—and grabbed a sheet of manuscript paper, and began making scribbles all over it.

Rose had seated herself in front of Sherlock's laptop, and, picking up the How To book she had purchased for him, she decided to help the Best Man get some ideas down for his speech. Rose made the mistake of asking Sherlock one tiny question, after which he threw down his pencil in disgust, and flopped onto the couch, claiming his creative flow had been disrupted.

Rose immediately felt sorry, and tried to apologise, after which Sherlock asked her to demonstrate just how sorry she was. Rose left a trail of clothing all the way to Sherlock's bedroom, and challenged Sherlock to find out for himself how apologetic she was.

Once their midday romp had concluded, Rose told Sherlock she would stay in bed to write his Best Man speech if he wanted to continue composing in peace in the living room. Sherlock said the muse had well and truly left him, and he would take it up again sometime during the week.

"Let's get that abominable speech out of the way," he had suggested to her, and then had taken up residence on his couch once more.

By the late afternoon, Rose had sketched out some semblance of a speech, and had completed Sherlock's index cards. She formed a separate pile for the telegrams, and instructed him to add to them as new emails arrived in the three weeks leading up to the wedding.

Sherlock had phoned the hospital, under the guise of Major Reed, to find out the latest on Bainbridge's condition. He was disappointed to find that the Private was still unconscious. He sent John a text, informing him of this latest update.

Rose settled into John's armchair by the fire to read a hefty tome she had found on Sherlock's bookshelf about the neuroscience surrounding the mind of a serial killer, thinking that it may help with her future studies of Forensic Psychology. Sherlock sat across from her in his chair, tapping away on his computer before closing the lid with a satisfied sigh.

"That's the last one," he said, placing his laptop on the floor beside his chair.

"Which one is that?"

"The Hound and Mortar."

"Mmm," Rose responded, frowning.

"What?"

"It's around the corner from the Rendezvous. It's a bit rough on a Saturday night, but you should be fine as long as you stay out of the beer garden, I guess."

"Then we'll be fine," Sherlock remarked, plastering a fake smile across his face. "A rather sedate tour of London's wide and varied pub scene."

"Did you really find a corpse near the club?"

"In an alleyway, cut up into little bags dumped in a skip bin. It's a wonder you hadn't heard of it."

Rose placed the book onto a nearby sidetable, and stood up from her chair, stretching. "Way before my time. Sounds like it will be a lovely evening for the two of you then. Next Saturday?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, outstretching a hand to invite Rose in for their new method of cuddling—in his armchair by the fire.

"That will be my last night at the club as well," Rose said, making herself comfortable in Sherlock's lap as he banded his arms around her. "Star Wars Day."

"What?"

Rose couldn't resist planting a soft kiss on the underside of Sherlock's jaw. She snuggled in closer. He felt so warm and cuddly.

"You know, Star Wars Day," she repeated, looking up at him. "The 4th of May, or the way Americans say it makes more sense—May the 4th."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in response. "Nope. I don't understand."

"May the 4th," Rose said again. "May the force...?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, indicating non-comprehension.

"May the force... be... with... you."

"What force?" Sherlock asked through narrow eyes.

A small laughed escaped Rose, and she threaded her fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"Never mind," she said, her eyes twinkling with affection. "It's from a movie franchise. One of the computer geeks at the entertainment store mentioned it. He's throwing a party for his geeky friends."

"For what?"

"For Star Wars Day. Don't worry about it. I bet you're more of a Trekkie anyway," Rose added, a smile playing on her lips.

"I'm sure you're mocking me in some way," Sherlock said, lowering his voice and returning Rose's affections by brushing his lips against the soft skin behind her ear.

"Star Trek," she sighed, shivering beneath Sherlock's electrifying touch.

He drew back and tilted his head to one side. "I know that name."

"You do?" Rose asked, arching an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his expression barely masking his disdain. "John played a movie trailer on YouTube some time ago. His enthusiasm far overshadowed whatever he was trying to show me on the screen—some character he said reminded him of me."

Rose burst into laughter at the thought of Sherlock watching a Star Trek trailer while John Watson enthusiastically pointed at the main antagonist and tried to convince Sherlock of their similarities. Sherlock regarded Rose with a stony expression while she tried to stifle her laughter.

After a moment or two, he added, "I couldn't see it. The man had the personality of a traffic light."

This comment brought a fresh round of giggling from Rose, and Sherlock bided his time by raising his eyes to the ceiling then brushing away imaginary fluff from the arm of his chair.

"Have you quite finished?" he asked Rose, straight-faced.

"I'm sorry," Rose managed to say, her eyes still moist from laughter. "No, you're nothing like him. He's definitely..." Rose pressed her palm flat against Sherlock's chest. "More solid," she finished.

"Solid?" Sherlock queried.

"Well, you know... built."

"I'm sure you're making up words now."

"Except," Rose began, dropping her eyes to Sherlock's shirt. "When you returned to London, you were sort of... bulkier."

"I was fat?"

"No! Solid. Muscle-y," she said, curving her hand around one of Sherlock's biceps. "Well, at least your shirts were a bit... snugger. Must've been all that outdoor exercise you were getting when you were abroad."

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. "Your observations skills are poor at best, Rose. My brother's people had to buy me an entire new wardrobe because Mrs Hudson got rid of my things. I'm sure every shirt they purchased was one or two sizes too small."

"I'm sure they were," Rose responded, smiling agreeably at Sherlock. The images of Sherlock's bare chest in early November last year were quite fresh in her mind. There was nothing wrong with her observational skills. She could still feel the hardness of his chest beneath her touch. He was still quite firm now, but his lack of eating had him slim down quite a bit in the months he'd been back.

"So where were we?" she asked, lowering her gaze to Sherlock's full lips before returning her focus on his steel grey eyes. He was looking at her with a curious expression in his eyes.

Sherlock narrowed the gap between them, and murmured against Rose's lips, "Tea time snog." He pressed his lips to hers for a second before withdrawing. As one corner of his mouth curved into a smile, he said, "Shall we begin?"

.


A/N: I'm sorry! That was so corny! Just slap me now... Just having a bit of fun :)