Chapter 38 - I've Cut it Down to the Really Good Bits
Rose emitted a long, shuddering breath before a grateful moan escaped her. Sherlock knew she was close and he increased his efforts before a loud clatter startled both of them.
"Don't... stop... sorry," Rose panted, before another pan joined the first with a reverberating clank onto the kitchen floor.
Rose's hand suddenly found its way into Sherlock's hair, a sure-fire signal that she was there. Dropping her head back brought about a dull thud as she hit the overhead cabinet and her curse died on a gasp as a shockwave rippled through her. Sherlock steadied her lest she slide from the countertop, as Rose was lost in the waves of her orgasm.
Swift, light footsteps ascended the staircase with the accompanying call of his landlady.
"Everything all right, Sherlock?"
"Quick, go!" Sherlock bid Rose, gathering her up, her dressing gown gaping, and her bare flesh flushed, and gently lowering her back onto the kitchen floor.
Rose dashed around the fridge, and disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom as Sherlock quickly wiped his mouth on a tea towel which he then dropped into the sink. He turned the tap on and squirted in a generous amount of dishwashing detergent just as the older woman opened the door to the kitchen from the landing.
"What's going on? Not another hazardous chemical spill?"
"No, just washing the dishes," Sherlock replied disinterestedly, without turning around.
Though dressed in his grey shirt and dark trousers, wearing a damn sight more than his lover had been wearing only moments ago, Sherlock found he couldn't face his landlady just yet. His trousers strained to hide the evidence of his own mounting arousal.
He took a step backward and stooped to pick up one of the offending copper pots. Returning it to the side of the sink, he said, "I stacked up too many at once. They fell. Not too hard a deduction to make."
He was partly grateful that Mrs Hudson retrieved the second saucepan for him. It had bounced closer to the doorway, and there was no way he was going to turn around to fetch it.
"You, washing dishes," Mrs Hudson remarked as she approached Sherlock with the pot. "Mrs Turner always says—"
"Do you mind? I'm thinking."
The landlady carefully placed the saucepan on top of the first and offered the comment, "I thought playing the violin helps you think."
"I'm trying something different," Sherlock swiftly replied. "Now could you please leave before I lose my train of thought."
"I prefer the sounds of the violin," Mrs Hudson muttered as she left the kitchen, gently closing the door behind her.
As her footsteps retreated downstairs, Sherlock bowed his head and sighed deeply. Perhaps they should've locked both doors before commencing their game of Cluedo. Sherlock usually kept the doors locked whenever Rose stayed over, but their routine was a bit different today; it was Friday, not Sunday.
Since Rose had been passed over for a promotion at the home entertainment store, she had taken to working within the parameters of her job description, and that also meant using the leave she was owed. Sherlock and Rose had already discussed the logistics for the weekend. John's Stag Night was on Saturday night, so Rose would not come over after her shift—her last shift—at the strip club. Her mother had quite often invited Rose to Sunday brunch—an invitation Rose had always declined because of her routine with Sherlock—but on this occasion she would accept. So they wouldn't miss spending an entire day together, Rose had taken a day's leave from the store on Friday. She arrived late Thursday night and would leave in the early hours of Saturday morning.
Feeling rather frivolous at getting to spend a weekday with Sherlock, Rose suggested they bring out the game of Operation for a session of Strip-Operation for old times' sake. Sherlock declared it dull, because Rose wouldn't let him electrify the circuit, and at a suggestion of Strip-Poker, he classified it as unimaginative.
Rose had rummaged through Sherlock's cupboard and found the board game of Cluedo. Sherlock had wrinkled his nose and said that the rules were wrong, because it didn't allow for the victim to have committed suicide when everything pointed to the fact. Rose had laughed and reminded him that they didn't play these games by their written rules anyway.
At a slight flicker of alarm in Sherlock's eyes, Rose eagerly anticipated playing this particular version with the detective. She had assumed that he had allocated a rating of ten out of ten to the time they had sex against her kitchen wall, and she was looking forward to giving Sherlock new experiences once again.
"We only need the cards," she explained to an ashen-faced Consulting Detective, "and not the board. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Sherlock quickly replied. "It's just unusually stuffy in here at this time of year."
Rose kept a straight face as she brought the game cards over to the couch where Sherlock was sitting. She placed the cards onto the coffee table in their respective piles.
"This version of the game was made up by Maria. Do you remember her?"
Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly. "I never met any of the other prostitutes in the brothel."
"Oh. Well she was the one who used most of the costumes stored in that cupboard in our room. Remember?"
"Why do you say 'our room'? Was it not used by anyone else?"
Rose's face softened at the memory. "It... well, yes. But I used the room across the hallway on Thursday and Saturday nights. On the three occasions I was called in to... meet you, I chose that room because Tuesday's were quiet and I liked the window facing the road. So... I like to think of it as our room."
Sherlock studied Rose's face, and briefly returned her smile.
"I've never played this version," Rose confessed. "Just so you know. Maria participated in a couple of orgies when she worked in Liverpool, so it's really for a large group of people."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise maintained a cool visage.
"Okay, you know what these are," she began, turning over the first pile of cards and fanning them across the table. "These are the suspects, so they're the ones who—"
"I know who suspects are," Sherlock said impatiently.
Rose soldiered on despite the interruption. "They're the ones who could possibly have committed the crime, so in this version," she said, pausing to gaze meaningfully into Sherlock's eyes, "they perform the sexual act."
Sherlock cleared his throat. He hadn't needed to, but his airway felt like it could constrict at any moment.
"Well, in an orgy," Rose went on to explain, "you'd just allocate different characters to the people in the group. Since it's just the two of us, I'll take all of the female suspects, and you take the male."
"When you say take..."
"It just means, my turn or your turn. There are only the two of us after all."
"Thank God for that," Sherlock muttered.
Rose smiled in response. "So if we turn over Colonel Mustard, for example, that means you're performing the act. But if it's Miss Scarlett, then that would be me. Now, the weapons..."
Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm, but Rose had her eyes on the cards and hadn't noticed. She spread them out before them and continued. "In a group sex scenario, Maria said they had a lot of props—dildos, whips, handcuffs, that kind of thing." Rose glanced up at Sherlock as she spoke and found that his complexion had turned a paler shade of shit-scared again.
"So..." she said, grasping his hand and squeezing it in an effort to reassure him. "...we'll just use what we normally have at our disposal—hands, mouth, genitals."
Sherlock blinked rapidly as his three methods of pleasuring Rose were swiftly retrieved from his Mind Palace database.
"Do you mean..." he began, his mind still racing. "We... allocate a potential weapon to..."
"Now you're getting it," Rose remarked, her eyes lit up in encouragement. "As there are six weapons, we can say two each to mean hands, mouth, and genitals. Just randomly. You don't have to put too much thought into it. And I promise you," Rose said, arching an eyebrow, "I won't make any psychological observations about which objects you pair."
Sherlock had narrowed his eyes as he studied the cards, then, decision made, he spoke quite rapidly. "Candlestick and Rope—hands; Lead Pipe and Spanner—mouth; Dagger and Revolver—genitalia."
Rose was caught by surprise at Sherlock's quick categorising. "Okay. Great. No need to expl—"
"Well, it's obvious. The candlestick and the rope are ordinary household items, handy to have around the house—therefore, hands. The lead pipe and the spanner can be used by tradesmen, plumbers, specifically. In fact the word plumber is derived from the Latin word for lead. However, lead pipes are no longer used to transport water—lead poisoning of course. And poison is usually ingested orally, so: mouth. I just put the spanner with the plumber. It's arbitrary really. Now the revolver—"
"Sherlock," Rose interrupted him. She gently placed a hand on his arm. "It's fine. As long as you can remember them."
"Okay, fine," Sherlock responded, a bit miffed that he didn't get to finish explaining his clever word association.
"Right then," Rose said with a sigh. "The Rooms should be more obvious."
Sherlock took the pile of cards that was left in front of him, turned it over, then spread the cards across the table.
"Well, the kitchen's obvious," he stated.
"Yes, so..." Rose said, dragging over the kitchen card. "The rest of the kitchen is the kitchen, but the table you've got in there can be the dining room."
"How can a table be a room?"
"Sherlock, this is for the purposes of..."
Rose paused, a smile slowly spreading across her face. She watched Sherlock until the light went on in his eyes.
"Oh!"
"Good man," Rose said, patting Sherlock's leg. "So, the lounge can be this couch, the hall can be the passageway just outside your bedroom, now... the ballroom..."
Rose narrowed her eyes in thought. Sherlock didn't quite get it, but he didn't want to say.
"The rug!" Rose exclaimed in delight.
"The rug," Sherlock repeated in distaste.
"Yes! Because you taught me to waltz there. It can be the ballroom!"
"You mean, we're going to have sex on my living room rug?"
"Potentially," Rose replied. "It all depends on the card that gets turned over, doesn't it?"
Sherlock stifled an eye-roll as Rose moved the Room cards away that they had already allocated.
"Okay," Rose said, leaning forward and studying the remaining cards. "The library, where can that be? Where do you sit and read books?" she asked pointedly, staring at Sherlock and arching her eyebrows in expectation.
This time Sherlock did raise his eyes to the ceiling. "My... armchair?" he answered reluctantly.
Rose beamed at him. Clearly, it was the response she was waiting for.
"So, if you remember the layout of the game board, you'll find the billiard room right next to the library. My chair!"
Sherlock's heart stuttered, and his eyes took in Rose's chair. It wasn't Rose's chair, it was John's chair. It would always be John's chair. They couldn't have it off in John's chair!
"The study can be the living room table, now..." Rose drifted off, her attention drawn to the final room. Oblivious to Sherlock's internal panic attack, she placed an index finger on the last card, and idly dragged it from side to side. "What's a conservatory?"
Sherlock had become rigid, and his mind didn't register Rose's question. He was still staring with beady eyes at John Watson's armchair.
"Sherlock, what's a conservatory?"
The detective blinked, and then finally considered Rose's question. "It's a room built with enough windows so that you can enjoy the surrounding environment without putting yourself in it."
"Okay," Rose responded, looking toward the living room windows. "In front of the window?" she asked, pointing to the window nearest them.
"You want to have sex in front of the window?"
Sherlock wore a particularly pained expression. This was getting ridiculous now.
"Not so anybody can see us, don't worry," Rose laughed.
When Sherlock stared darkly into space, Rose abandoned her moment of frivolity. Leaning into him, and wrapping her arms around one of his, she said, "We don't have to play this. It was just an idea."
Sherlock turned his head to look down at Rose. She straightened up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.
"We can cuddle on the couch like we normally do," she suggested. Rose released Sherlock's arm and turned her attention back to the coffee table. Sliding cards together, she said, "And have a cuppa. Do you want to put the kettle on?" She looked up at Sherlock, and gave him a reassuring smile, before stacking the cards back together again into their respective piles.
Sherlock slowly rose from the couch, deep in thought. Was Rose unhappy with their current sex life? Did she want to spice it up a bit, a phrase Sherlock had heard once or twice. Was she disappointed in him?
He slowly filled the kettle, and switched it on, then drifted back toward the living room, stopping beside his ex-flatmate's chair, the billiard room. Rose had the three piles of cards neatly stacked in front of her on the coffee table, and she was staring at a set of three cards she had turned face up.
"What did you get?" Sherlock asked, startling Rose in the process.
"Oh," she said, before a sheepish grin escaped her. "Professor Plum, in the kitchen, with a lead pipe."
Sherlock stood facing Rose, with his hands thrust casually in his trouser pockets. Turning toward the kitchen, he bid her, "Come on then. Kettle's boiling. We want to be done before the water goes cold."
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Unless, of course, history was written by Mrs Hudson, in which case, all it would state is that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly capable of washing his own dirty dishes.
Rose reluctantly drew back from Sherlock's warm lips. When his eyelids fluttered open, they remained open this time.
"And don't stare back at anyone trying to catch your eye," she said. "Because they probably want to pick a fight."
"I'm a grown man," Sherlock retorted, his voice rough from sleep. "I know how to handle myself in crowded pubs."
"Yes, but—"
"As much as I appreciate your concern, you're ruining the goodbye."
Rose couldn't believe how anxious she was feeling about the Stag Night later that evening. She had woken before dawn to make her early escape from Sherlock's flat under cover of darkness, and upon kissing him awake, she had preceded to give him advice for staying safe during his night out with his best friend.
"You have to get up anyway," Rose said, moving away from him and standing up.
She was already dressed, but Sherlock would usually get out of bed when she was leaving so they could say their goodbyes in the living room. When Rose departed, Sherlock would watch from his living room window, making sure she got into the taxi safely.
"And women might try to pick you up," Rose continued, as they left the bedroom. "They may say something trite in order to start a conversation." She stopped in the living room, turning to him as he pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas. "So just be nice," Rose added, lifting her hands to smooth out Sherlock's robe.
Rose realised she was sounding like a concerned parent whose child was going off to big school for the first time. She couldn't help it. The Stag Night had been such a source of turmoil for the detective that she just wanted everything to go smoothly for him so he and John could have a pleasant evening together.
"Goodbye, Rose," Sherlock said, banding his arms around her in an effort to end this topic of conversation.
He pressed his lips to hers, then drew back in readiness for the rest of their farewell ritual.
Small creases had appeared in Rose's brow. Clearly she had a bit more to say. Rose noted the hope and expectation in Sherlock's eyes and she decided she didn't want to disrupt Sherlock's much-needed kick-start for the day.
With her expression softening, she whispered her goodbye, followed by the much anticipated, I love you. And her own heart soared when she was gifted with Sherlock's broad grin in response. They kissed again far too passionately for a goodbye kiss, and Sherlock assumed Rose was trying to inject a good luck charm into hers.
When they drew back, Rose softly caressed Sherlock's cheek as she refrained from speaking. With one final half-smile, she turned and left, descending the stairs as quietly as possible.
Sherlock drifted toward the window, buoyed by the sudden surge of dopamine, his brain rewarding his central nervous system purely for the fact of being loved. Everybody should begin their day this way, the detective thought in reflection, as he parted his curtains a crack. What a tender world it would be.
As he observed the darkened figure that was Rose climb into a cab across the street and a little way down from 221, he came to the startling realisation that Rose did not get to start her days in the same way. There was something he was neglecting to tell her.
A tiny bleep punctuated the silence of the darkened flat, and Sherlock turned in the direction of its source. Of course, it was his phone, and it was located in his bedroom. Sherlock crossed the flat, entering his room as the light from the screen faded. Picking up the phone and pressing the home button, he managed a warm smile in response to Rose's message, although his heart now felt heavy with a new burden.
And don't drink too quickly in so short a period. But have a wonderful night! I love you!
Rose's otherwise dull Saturday at the home entertainment store was alleviated somewhat at the prospect of having a late afternoon tea with Mary Morstan. Rose had felt a pang of guilt at not finding the opportunity to have a night off and accept Mary's kind invitation to her Hen Night the previous weekend. When she had phoned beforehand to offer her apology, Mary had suggested they go out for a quick cuppa the following weekend before Rose started her shift at the club. Mary was going to spend the evening at her friend Cath's place while John had his night out with his Best Man.
The café was in Shoreditch, so Rose didn't have far to travel to work afterwards.
Rose found it refreshing to be able to chat with someone who knew most of her sordid details, past and present, with one exception. Mary didn't know about Rose's liaison with her fiancé. Of course, neither of the betrothed were each other's first partners, but Rose thought that volunteering this information made for an awkward conversation topic.
The two women chatted about movies they loved from their childhoods, favourite subjects in school, and how a man can manage to get a toilet plunger stuck in his rectum. It was Mary who raised the latter, having done a stint in A&E in her early twenties as a nurse-in-training.
Rose volunteered anecdotes of her own, mostly concerning fellow students in a counselling unit she had taken at uni and the problems caused in their workshops due to the odd dynamics of the group. She also mentioned her troubles at Roches, her sorrow at leaving the Rendezvous, and her secret desire to live in Paris some day. Nothing was mentioned about her stint as a prostitute, nor her relationship with Sherlock, and Rose couldn't help but notice that Mary never mentioned her work or private life in the years leading up to meeting John Watson.
It had been a lovely meet-up, and Mary insisted they do it again, or perhaps go for a few drinks one night, now that Rose's Saturday nights would be free after this one.
Rose entered the gentlemen's club on Old Street with a pang of regret. As an employer, the strip club had always been generous and supportive, and the camaraderie surrounding its employees—the dancers, the bouncers, and the bar staff—was to be admired compared to other places in the same industry. Rose also noted its stark contrast to the relationship that existed between management and staff at the home entertainment store. But Rose knew, in her heart, that she could no longer work there. She couldn't support a business that existed solely for the exploitation of women by men. It was wrong. This was her last tie to the sex industry, and it had to be severed.
Rose vowed to spend her evening checking coats, by eyeing the patrons critically, and not feeling sad for leaving the colleagues she'd come to care about at the club. However, her plans for her shift were unexpectedly altered. When Rose entered the dressing room to deposit her bag and coat before tending to the cloakroom at the entrance, she was descended upon by her dancer friends.
"No work tonight!"
"Getcha gear off then!"
Bewildered, Rose spluttered, "What's going on?"
She was told by several excitable young strippers that the club was throwing a farewell party for her tonight, so she was to change out of her uniform into borrowed clothes once more, and sit in the private booth all night while being waited upon like a VIP.
She was hugged several times over, which made changing out of her uniform—for the last time—not only an emotional experience, but also logistically difficult.
Rose was escorted to the main club area, but not before being "crowned" with a fake tiara by one of the dancers.
"We'd offer you the works," Gary, the owner, said with a mischievous grin, "Lap-dancing and what not, but I didn't think you'd go for it."
Rose had no shortage of party people in attendance. The dancers who weren't on stage would stop by, as well as the alternating presence of bar and security staff. The only constants were the club's owner, Gary, and Raji, his second in charge. Rose found herself getting tipsy, and she had never laughed so hard at bawdy stories since working a Saturday night at the brothel in Soho. The strippers had no shortage of anecdotes about club patrons, and neither did Gary and Raji. Rose was hugged and kissed and had her face rubbed raw of lipstick traces throughout the early evening. Their party was quite raucous and attracted the attention of several of the patrons who thought that by throwing money around they could gate-crash the private party. The bouncers were quite diligent in their duties in those cases.
It was the presence of a uniformed officer that gave Rose the idea that her pleasant evening was going to go awry. Guilty thoughts of surreptitious comings and going from Baker Street or her secret past life of sex with an MP flitted through her mind when the officer asked for her by name. Her heart leapt into her mouth, until the "police officer" started gyrating to the music in front of her and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Rose's mouth gaped in realisation that Gary had hired a male stripper for her. Gary, who employed approximately sixty female strippers on a casual basis, had gone to the trouble of hiring an outsider, as a farewell present for Rose.
Rose buried her face in Amber's shoulder, as the rest of the party hooted and whistled at the male dancer. This was not happening, Rose thought in deep embarrassment. And how had she not spotted the phony officer? She, of all people, who had once performed this exact same role, who had 'arrested' oblivious young men—Sherlock Holmes included—had not recognised the theatrics.
She laughed and tried to cover her face, then curled up into Amber when the male stripper tried to encourage her to stand and dance with him. Rose then prodded Amber, the young stripper having no hesitation in joining her male counterpart in the middle of the private area.
As the attention was fixed on the two strippers in the middle of the VIP area, Rose took this as an opportunity to seek some fresh air. It had been a while since she had ever consumed so much alcohol in so short a period. She stood, wobbled a bit, then navigated past the many legs that were sat around. She playfully punched Raji in the shoulder as she passed him, saying, "Arsehole! I know it was you!"
Rose sought refuge by Askari, the largest bouncer standing on the edge of the private area. "As I'm a bit drunk," she said, slurring slightly and wrapping her arms around his massive one, "do you think you could escort me outside? I need air."
"How can you stop working here now, after this?" he asked her.
"How can I stay, after this? It's a farewell party!" she retorted, giggling a little.
As they turned toward the doors to the entrance, Rose was startled to see two familiar figures enter the main room. One was shorter than the other, and slightly stockier, and he was making a bee-line for what Rose knew was the corridor leading to the toilets. The other had stopped, his great coat hanging from him as he stood, like a Spencer Hart model, scanning the room.
Good God. Sherlock.
Having the effects of alcohol lower her inhibitions and practically obliterate her usual paranoia, Rose released her hold on Askari, and strode confidently toward the Consulting Detective. He spied her across the floor, and his face lit up in recognition.
"Rosie!" he exclaimed, striding the last few paces that separated them, before enveloping her in an enormous bear hug.
Rough hands seized Sherlock just as quickly, pulling him from the Rendezvous employee.
"Whoa, whoa!" the detective protested, holding up his hands in surrender.
"It's okay!" Rose called out urgently to Askari, the bouncer, as additional security looked on in interest. "He's a friend!"
Frowning petulantly as the bouncer released him, and flapping out his coat, like a peacock preening, Sherlock regarded Rose through glassy eyes.
"Why are you dressed like that?"
"They're throwing a party for me," Rose answered, displaying a good deal of drunken enthusiasm herself. "I didn't have to work tonight after all!"
"But... you look like a street walker."
A great laugh escaped Rose, and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Sherlock. "You know these aren't my clothes," she whispered, "but I love it when you talk dirty."
Sherlock beamed, and pressed his forehead against Rose's. "I'm a bit light-headed. That's good I think."
"No, I think you're actually really drunk," she laughed, "but don't worry, I'm a bit tipsy, too."
"No, no. Of course I'm not drunk. I have an app. I've been monitoring."
Sherlock released Rose from his embrace, and fumbled around inside his jacket pocket for his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. As Rose looked on in drunken amusement, Bella, one of the dancers who was currently collecting her floor fee, enthusiastically sidled up to them.
"Who's your friend, Rose?" Bella asked, holding her collection jug in front of her.
"Oh, he's not... don't worry about..." Rose began, stumbling over her words because she wanted to not only preserve Sherlock's anonymity but also to discourage Bella from hustling Sherlock for money.
Sherlock looked up, having successfully located his phone. "Hello," he said amiably.
"Would you like to see me dance?" Bella asked, nodding to the stage area and lifting her jug a little higher.
Sherlock drew his brow down in disapproval. Rose could see his mind at work, and just as he opened his mouth, she cut in. "He's just leaving, Bella. Don't worry about him."
Bella feigned a disappointed pout, and was just about to leave when Sherlock told her, with accompanying waggling index finger, "You know, you don't have to do this."
"Sherlock!" Rose interjected, swiftly shoving his hand back down. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's, and pivotted him away from the stripper. Calling over her shoulder, she said, "He's from out of town! Don't worry!"
Bella reluctantly left them alone, but forgot the pair the instant she spied a group of raucous males at a nearby table.
"I was going to tell her she was being exploited," Sherlock lamented.
"There's a time and a place," Rose whispered to him. "They'll kick you out if they think you're acting aggressively toward a dancer when they're trying to do their hustling thing. Why are you here, anyway?"
"Because it's your last night, and I didn't want you to go home alone."
It was a combination of Sherlock's puppy dog eyes, and the alcoholic fumes that swam around her head that prompted Rose to grab Sherlock in a rough embrace once more. "You're so thoughtful," she gushed, gazing up at him in awe of his considerate behaviour.
"I know," he replied, bowing his head, and returning Rose's sappy smile with one of his own.
The pair were lost in their own blissful, inebriated bubble, grinning stupidly at each other and oblivious to the surrounding environment. When Rose stood on her toes, to press her lips to Sherlock's, the detective was only too keen to reciprocate. Sherlock held her tightly, and parted his lips when Rose did. Rose threaded her fingers through Sherlock's curls as their kissing deepened without restraint.
A tender hand patted Rose on the shoulder, before a deep voice called her urgently. She left off snogging with her detective-lover to look around in confusion. The looming presence of the bouncer, Askari, stood beside them, prompting Rose to remember where they were.
"You'll have to take this somewhere private," he told them.
Rose sheepishly apologised, then grabbed Sherlock by the hand, leading him over to a wall before the toilets.
"You heard him," Sherlock began. "We should go home now… to Baker Street."
"I think I should stay longer to say goodbye to my workmates," Rose replied. "But anyway, isn't… didn't John… ?" Rose frowned in confusion. She was sure she'd seen John Watson enter the club only moments ago, and she faintly recalled Mary saying she expected John to stay over at Baker Street tonight with Sherlock, for old times' sake, after their night out. "Sherlock! Where's John?"
"John?" Sherlock repeated. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as his mind navigated through the sludge of his intoxication to find the last known location of the stag. "Oh, pfff," Sherlock replied eventually. "Weak bladder," he replied, flapping a hand in the direction of the toilets. "He keeps needing to go. Oh!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he recalled something specific. "I need to log that!"
Sherlock swiftly unlocked his phone, and his face split in two when he caught sight of what was on his screen. He turned the phone around to show Rose. The former cloakroom attendant burst into laughter at the selfie Sherlock had taken of himself and the groom at some stage during the Stag Night.
Sherlock's furrowed brow replaced his mirthful expression as he tried to find the app he was using to monitor his and John's alcohol input and output.
"So how did you get John to enter a strip club?" Rose asked, as she watched him in interest.
"Oh, he didn't notice what this club was. He just wanted to use the bathroom. But I wanted to see you."
At that time of the evening, Sherlock and John had just rounded the corner, having left The Hound and Mortar, where Sherlock had almost got into a fight in the beer garden after insisting to a particularly unimpressed patron that the detective knew ash—all 243 types of tobacco ash, in fact. And furthermore, he knew ashtrays.
As Sherlock gazed across Old Street, in Shoreditch, his face lit up in recognition of the strip club, whose neon sign blazed before him like a beacon.
R e n d e z v o u s
And in the haze of Sherlock's inebriation, combined with a Mind Palace operating at only 25% capacity, the letters all rearranged themselves, until four letters stood out, heralding another welcome sign.
R n v O u e S d z E
The detective's eyes widened in recognition. He grabbed his best friend's jacket sleeve and pulled him to the kerb.
"This way, John!"
"Ah, I need to visit the..."
"She's this way!"
"She?"
They crossed the street with John muttering to himself about Sherlock assigning gender pronouns to dunnies. As they approached the club, John noticed a group of men up ahead who were denied access for being too drunk.
"Uh, oh, Sherlock," John warned, his pace slowing.
"What?"
John nodded toward the busy entrance to the club. "We won't get in if we're already intox... intox... drunk."
"Then we'll be fffine," Sherlock responded. He didn't notice that John had to wipe a bit of flying spittle from his face after the detective had spoken. "Ooh!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding out his arm to prevent John from walking further. "Look. Haircut, stance, dog tags, tattoo."
"What?" John asked, following Sherlock's gaze toward one of the bouncers on the door.
"Ex-military," Sherlock replied. "Just let it slip that you're a retired army captain, and you'll be right."
Satisfied that he had facilitated a worried John Watson in gaining entry to the club, Sherlock hung back, letting John do his army thing. When he saw both John and the security guy exchange salutes, he allowed himself a self-satisfied grin. He strode forward, expecting to gain immediate entry himself, when the bouncer held up one hand.
"Sorry, mate. Looks like you've already had enough for this evening," the big man said to Sherlock.
"But I'm..." Sherlock vaguely gestured behind the bouncer to where he could see John Watson standing by the cloakroom waiting for him, shuffling from foot to foot like a toddler in need of the bathroom. Oh, Sherlock realised. John did need to go desperately. Why was the idiot waiting for him then?
"I saw you lurching across the street," the bouncer informed Sherlock. "You stumbled off the kerb. Bit too much to drink?"
"I was merely escorting my..." Sherlock flapped a hand in John's general direction."... colleague. Here..." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, realised there was nothing in there, then swapped hands to search his jacket pocket instead. He finally retrieved the identification wallet he had been searching for. Flashing an I.D. card and badge at the bouncer, he said, taking care to enunciate his words, "Detective Inspector..." Sherlock raised a fist to his mouth in order to stifle a burp. "... Gregory Lestrade, C.I.D." He then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "I need to question your cloakroom attendant, Rosemarie Sulford."
Upon hearing an official title and being shown identification, as well as recognising the name of one of his colleagues, the bouncer stepped aside, giving a brief nod to the 'Scotland Yard D.I.' as he entered the establishment.
Sherlock joined John in front of the cloakroom, but stared in puzzlement at the attendant who was clearly not Rose.
"No, no," John said, grabbing Sherlock by his coat sleeve. "We don't need to check our coats. I just need the loo."
Satisfied that Sherlock was going to follow him into the main room, John released his grip, and strode through the door. Sherlock assumed he'd find Rose out the back having a break, and had swiftly followed his friend.
Rose was still quite chuffed that Sherlock had sought her out this evening, and that he knew how important her last night on the job was to her.
"Let's go home," he bid her again, after he put his phone away.
Rose opened her mouth to explain how early it was and about the farewell party once more, when Sherlock's attention was drawn away. John Watson had emerged from the toilets and, recognising Sherlock by his Belstaff, he had made his way over to him. Suddenly the flashing lights on the stage, and the onset of dance music caught John's attention, and the good doctor realised into what type of club the two men had entered.
"Ah, Sherlock," he said, tugging on the detective's sleeve as John stared, mesmerised at the entertainment. "I don't think we want to be in here."
Ignoring John's moment of epiphany since the knowledge of the club being a strip joint was old news to the detective, Sherlock responded with, "John, look who I found! It's... it's..."
John turned his attention back to his friend and the woman who stood beside him. He narrowed his eyes at Rose and took a few moments to consult his own memory banks, as dulled by alcohol as they were. "I know you, don't I?" he asked, furrowing his brow.
"It's Rosie, John!"
"Shh-shelley Something," John murmured, almost simultaneously.
Sherlock snorted in amusement then wrapped a drunken arm around Rose's shoulders. He then prodded John's sternum as he spoke. "That's... her... call... girl... name. Rude! " he finished, pointing his index finger right between Doctor Watson's eyes. "Not Shelley. It's Rose!"
Rose knew there was something she was supposed to be concerned about with regard to bumping into John Watson. Since she couldn't immediately figure it out, she gave John a little wave anyway.
The doctor shook his head and blinked confusedly. He also thought there was something about this woman in Sherlock's company that was supposed to trouble him. Then he turned to Sherlock and said, "We should go. Er... cab?" and he immediately dismissed Rose from his thoughts.
The ex-army captain about-faced, swayed, then strode to the doorway through to the club entrance, with all the grace of an inebriated man pretending to the world that he was sober. Sherlock grabbed Rose's hand and hastened along after his friend.
"Wait, Sherlock!" Rose hissed, trotting along behind the detective. "I can't go yet."
"What?" Sherlock asked, turning to Rose as they joined John in the entrance.
"I'm having a farewell party," she said, waving a hand back toward the club room. "A party-strip-thing."
John Watson regarded the pair, and noticed the small detail of their hand holding. He hastened forward and pried Sherlock's and Rose's hands apart.
"Oh no, no, no, no," he admonished Sherlock. "You can't take them home with you."
Rose and Sherlock exchanged a look, then both burst into laughter. Sherlock silently doubled over as Rose covered her mouth and turned away, quaking with laughter. John looked from one to the other, absolutely bewildered.
"He thinks... you're a stripper!" Sherlock struggled to say to Rose.
John look on, bemused. He didn't understand the hilarity.
"She's... she's..." Sherlock stammered before being overcome with an attack of the giggles once more.
John grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve and said to Rose, in a voice of condescension, "S-sorry. My friend has to leave."
He tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, pulling the detective along toward the doors as Sherlock snorted another laugh.
"You can't..." John said, struggling to transport the giggling detective to the kerb. "You can't encourage them," he finished. He waited until they were away from the doors and out of earshot of the bouncers, then added, "They only want your money."
For reasons John couldn't fathom, this remark brought a fresh round of chuckling from the detective-genius. John tried to ignore him, and scanned the length of the road for a cab. He didn't have to wait long. He raised his hand in the air, noting with satisfaction, that a cab was slowing down. Sherlock had finally composed himself, and, seeing that John was hailing a cab, he suddenly shoved his friend aside, sending him sprawling along the footpath.
"I call the taxis!" Sherlock admonished John, and the detective raised a finger into the air to continue signalling the same cab.
John recovered from his fall, and lunged at the Best Man, tackling the lanky bastard to the ground. While the two men were grappling each other on the footpath, the cab driver had second thoughts about picking up a pair of drunken louts outside a strip club, and sped off.
John recovered faster than Sherlock, and stood, swearing under his breath when he saw they'd lost their ride home.
"Dickhead," he said.
Sherlock was busy brushing dirt from his coat, when John raised his hand for the next cab.
"Oh!" the detective exclaimed. "The goodbye!"
John tutted and shook his head, not having a clue what the Great Consulting Detective was on about now. Sherlock strode away from the kerb back towards the club, fluffed his hair with his fingers, and then straightened his coat, popping the collar up in the process.
He gave a vague nod to the same bouncer as before, and disappeared into the club. He was glad to find Rose just inside, talking animatedly with the substitute cloakroom attendant.
"Rose!"
Rose turned around, and her eyes lit up in recognition of Sherlock once more.
"I forgot to say goodbye," Sherlock said, before gathering her up in his arms.
Rose nervously looked around, but the bouncers at the door had their attention on the street outside for the moment. "What's happened to you?" she asked Sherlock, brushing dirt from one of his lapels. "You look all... messed up."
"Scuffle thing. Outside," Sherlock said vaguely, suddenly feeling the heavy soporific effect of all of the alcohol he had unknowingly consumed over the last few hours. "John. He's fine. Wounded pride, I think."
"You can't be fighting outside a club. You're a Consulting Detective. You have an international reputation."
"Do I?" Sherlock asked, blinking slowly.
Rose nodded, then asked, "You okay?"
A sleepy grin spread across Sherlock's face. He had a thing to do, and he knew it commenced with this: "Goodbye, Rose."
"Bye, Sherlock," Rose whispered in return. She stole a tiny kiss from Sherlock's full lips.
Sherlock's eyes were narrow slits when he murmured, "Say it, Rose. Say the words."
Rose smiled, her own heart pounding with the effects of the free drinks she'd consumed at her farewell party. "I love you."
"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, and with a sudden rush of energy, he lifted Rose, and spun her around where he stood.
Rose yelped in surprise, then immediately wished she hadn't.
As the firm hands of two security personnel clamped over Sherlock's arms and shoulders, he gently lowered Rose to the floor. He held her close, and drunkenly murmured in her ear, before he was pried away.
"Right buddy!" one bouncer said.
"You," Sherlock said, grinning with great affection, his arm outstretched and pointing at Rose, as he was pushed toward the door.
"No touching!" advised the second bouncer.
John was slouched by the open door of a second cab, almost nodding off when the two bouncers responded to a commotion inside the club entrance. The doctor straightened up and through beady eyes he watched as the bouncers came out again, roughly depositing an indignant detective-genius onto the footpath.
"We have a no touching policy, mate!"
"I wasn't touching you," Sherlock called back.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John muttered under his breath. The doctor retrieved the unruly detective and steered him toward the waiting taxi. "Get in."
The Rendezvous security personnel watched as the two inebriated men bickered in front of the cab door, before the shorter man pushed the other into the back seat.
As the cab left the kerb and disappeared along Old Street, one bouncer said to the other, "Another seedy copper."
"Yeah. What was his name?"
"Lestrade?"
"That's right. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."
Inside the entrance, Rose's heart-rate was through the roof. Her skin was flushed and the side of her face, where Sherlock had whispered his intoxicated words, continued to burn. It wasn't the embarrassment of Sherlock carrying on like a pork chop, or the drama of having her boyfriend bounced from the club that had her all flustered. The words he'd spoken to her after he'd lowered her to the ground had caused her to blush.
I love you, too.
Author's Note:
I know! He does! You all knew that didn't you?
Some of you may have noticed that I've uploaded a one-shot also called I've Cut it Down to the Really Good Bits. It is essentially the Stag Night scene from this chapter, with a lot of the Rose-bits removed. It was in response to a challenge issued in the Mrs Hudson's Kitchen forum. There is no new material in it.
Incidentally, I don't see Rose as 'Rose' from Doctor Who. So who you see as playing Rose?
