A/N: Lots of different interpretations for Rose. Fantastic to read them all! Thanks for all your encouragement with this story. Sorry about the tardy update. I was having a crisis of confidence. All good now! Enjoy the fluff!

Oh, and I've had a tiny dig at myself. See if you can spot it.

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Chapter 39 - Wasted Opportunity

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and vigorously towel-dried his hair, before attending to the rest of his body. At least the smell of stale cigarette smoke was gone, and the sour taste in his mouth had been eliminated by brushing his teeth two, no three, times while he was showering. Had he really thrown up in the middle of a potential crime scene?

A number of disappointments and alarming thoughts flitted through his mind while he was taking a shower:

1. He had neglected to grill John while the doctor was 'light-headed' last night about this mysterious former Commanding Officer, who "receives more death threats" than Sherlock himself, and who felt no need to send in an RSVP to John's wedding

2. The case of the woman dating a ghost had been the most interesting one he'd had for months and he had ruined the investigation, and

3. He'd told Rose that he loved her.

He couldn't do anything about item number three, except perhaps hope that the drama of being manhandled for 'touching' a Rendezvous employee last night meant that Rose hadn't actually heard him. But... would it be so bad if she had? He had meant it, hadn't he? Earlier in the day, he'd already thought about reciprocating the sentiment, when Rose had left his flat before dawn, but he hadn't really decided just when that first utterance was going to happen. He assumed he'd require years to work up the... what was it? Courage? Of course not. Since when was he afraid of anything? Obviously the sentiment required further analysis, and it wasn't something the detective was supposed to say willy-nilly.

But... intoxication. Alcohol over-consumption had a lot to answer for. Fancy letting that little snippet of emotion escape, uncensored, from his mouth. Ridiculous.

Sherlock wouldn't see Rose until later, depending on when he managed to get over to Leinster Gardens. He knew Rose was having Sunday brunch with her mother, so he wouldn't have the pleasure of her company any earlier. At one point during their evening out, he thought he could sneak out of Baker Street in the middle of the night, whether John had stayed over in his old room or not, and wind up curled around Rose in her bed. But his plans had been scuttled because he and John had been incarcerated for the night in an inner city police lock up for being drunk and disorderly.

As Sherlock dressed he thought he could tend to items one and two this morning. At least, he could commence item one—investigate Major Sholto, John's previous, no... former Commander—while John was using Mrs Hudson's bathroom downstairs. If the doctor returned to Sherlock's flat to say goodbye, then he'd switch to item number two—investigate other cases of women dating ghosts, as described by last night's client, Tessa.

Sherlock entered his living room detecting the faint smell of a breakfast fry-up as it wafted up the stairwell. There was a good chance that the landlady was cooking breakfast for Doctor Watson, just like old times, so Sherlock would have a fair amount of time to commence investigating Sholto.

The Consulting Detective powered up his laptop, then retreated to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. The little tray containing a teapot and solitary tea cup were there, as they always were every morning, on the side table next to his armchair, but the tea in the pot was stone cold. He knew this, because he'd already checked upon returning from the police station. So the tea making still happened whether he was in his flat or not. Strange.

While the kettle was boiling, Sherlock strode back into the living room and carefully scanned it for any other clues last night's client may have left behind. He had a vague memory of Tessa producing a printout from her bag, and for some reason he recalled it as one of those posters people often make to tape to lampposts, pleading for the return of their lost dogs.

So Tessa had a dog, and Sherlock would only need ten minutes to find it. Dogs were easy to locate—ghost dates... not so easy. So why was she asking him to find her dog as well? Was she trying for a two-for-one deal?

Sherlock shook his head. Perhaps his recall about the previous night's case was a bit hazy.

Sherlock spied a folded piece of paper on the floor of the landing. He strode over to it, and stooped to pick it up. He must've dropped it on their way out last night. He furrowed his brow as he scanned the page. It was a screenshot of a website called I Dated A Ghost. com. Now why had he thought it was something to do with a pet dog?

Dismissing all thoughts concerning the dog for the moment, Sherlock hastened to his living room table, and navigated to the Ghost-date website. Oh, he thought as he studied the page. It was a forum for chatting about encounters with the spirit world—that's what Tessa was rabbiting on about. Sherlock spent the next few minutes searching the site for all of the posts Tessa had made under the login name he'd found on the printout.

After rapidly scanning the forum posts, he tutted once or twice.

What are these women on about? They flit from one irrelevant topic to another. And now they're discussing a television show.

Surely there must be another connection between these women, other than obsessing over fictional TV characters, he thought, leaning back into his chair. He folded his arms in front of him, and distractedly rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. Where had all these encounters taken place? Map! I need a map.

Sherlock rummaged around in the filing cabinet in the far corner of the living room until he found his large map of London. He had several versions of them, but these days he was pretty adept at visualising locations in his Mind Palace; he knew London quite intimately. This morning, however, his usually sharp mind was slightly hungover. The only image it was capable of conjuring up was of Rose's warm bed.

Sherlock alternately consulted the chatroom for posts on the most recent forum thread, and attended to the large map he had spread over the table. He murmured to himself, complete with furrowed brow, as he stabbed drawing pins into the corresponding locations on the map, "Covent Garden, Colville Estate, Holloway..."

I wonder if I could get...

His thoughts turned to Rose, and the possibility of using her as bait, if he could only determine when and from where this mystery ghost would choose to entertain his next date.

"Lower Clapton, Walworth," he intoned, pinning away, and immediately dismissing the idea of using Rose. "Tower Hamlets, Southwark, East Dulwich."

He stopped pinning as he surveyed the two-dimensional representation of London. His eyes flitted from pin to pin. He could find no pattern, no link between each of these locations. He had nothing.

I wonder if Rose is home yet.

Sherlock heaved a sigh in frustration. He had no choice. He was going to have to join the chat forum and question as many women as he could ascertain had dated the same 'ghost.' Sherlock sank back down into his chair and eyed the website critically. He needed to have multiple conversations simultaneously in order to find a common trait between them all. But first he had to narrow the field of selection.

Open multiple windows, he thought, outlining a plan of attack in his mind, then scan each forum member for reoccurrences of the same attributes. Sherlock scoffed and tutted. Multiple windows meant smaller windows, and he loathed typing into tiny fields. Using his phone these days was hard enough. Perhaps his eyesight was getting worse.

Old age. Happens to us all, brother mine.

Oh, shut up, Mycroft.

Where's my other...?

Sherlock glanced about him, looking for the second computer that he always used to have on hand. Though initially puzzled by its absence, it slowly dawned on the detective-genius that he didn't, in fact, own the other laptop. The second device he normally commandeered belonged to John Watson, and the ex-army captain no longer lived with him in Baker Street.

John! Sherlock's mind exclaimed, reminding the detective that there was something else he wanted to work on this morning while his best friend was occupied downstairs.

Major James Sholto.

After opening a new browser window over the first, Sherlock swiftly searched for any news articles relating to John's ex-army Commander. He found several—the world was shocked and parents of young army personnel were outraged. Sherlock had just commenced reading another news story when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs. When the figure of John Watson came into view, Sherlock quickly switched to the window underneath, displaying the Ghost-date chat room once more.

"There are going to be others," he said to John, his mind switching gears as swiftly as he had changed the windows on his computer screen.

"Others?" the doctor repeated upon crossing the threshold.

"Victims, women. Most ghosts tend to haunt a single house," Sherlock explained as he rose from his seat. "This ghost, however, is willing to commute. Look."

Sherlock indicated the map sprawled across the table as John approached.

"Right," John remarked, eyeing the map as if he knew what he was studying. "Sorry, what?"

"The locations of the flats where our ghost took his dates," Sherlock explained. He turned from John and strode toward the kitchen, calling back, "I'll have to question the other victims on that chatroom Tessa was talking about." He waved vaguely at his computer, then busied himself pouring hot water into his tea cup.

John rounded the table and gave the computer screen a cursory glance.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, briefly looking over at John before slowly stirring sugar into his beverage.

"Ugh, no thanks," John answered. "I'm... ah... going to go home and have a bit of shut eye, unless you need me to... ah... help? Didn't really get a decent night's sleep in that cell."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Nope. I won't be doing much else with it today. I have a few things to attend to myself."

Like crash at Rose's flat. With Rose.

Sherlock turned his back on his cup, and leant against the counter, while he let the tea steep. John approached the kitchen, rubbing his hand on the nape of his neck and clearing his throat awkwardly. Sherlock tensed, ever so imperceptibly, in anticipation of the potential topic of conversation; it was obviously going to be something that made John uncomfortable.

"So... yeah, thanks for last night," John bid him, with half a smile. "I'm sure it was the thought that counts."

"I'm not entirely sure I'm responsible for the state in which we ended up," Sherlock responded, arching a brow at his best friend.

John grinned sheepishly. "Yeah... may have miscalculated something somewhere along the way. So..." The doctor cleared his throat again.

Here it comes, Sherlock thought.

"We... we... we ended up in a strip joint. Is that right?"

"Well, you had to empty your bladder for the dozenth time, and as we had to make a quick exit from The Hound and Mortar, it was the only open venue for the next block and a half."

"Right," John remarked, vigorously nodding his acceptance for Sherlock's explanation, as if he would need to repeat the excuse himself later. "And we... we... bumped into... ah..."

Sherlock carefully studied his best friend's expression and mannerisms as the doctor faltered once more.

He's not making eye contact, Sherlock thought in scrutiny. Physically turning away because he wants to steer away from the subject matter. Can't finish her name because he's not able to decide by which name he should call her—the student, or the prostitute. If he says 'Shelley', then he's denying all knowledge of Rose's confession to him the morning after they snogged. If he calls her 'Rose,' then he's either admitting that he knows he almost had sex with a prostitute, or he's acknowledging the information I fed him last night about Rose's real identity. Whatever the scenario, he's hesitant in being the one to continue the topic of conversation that may lead him to admit that he knows I used to pay a prostitute to have sex with me.

"Er..." John shook his head again, as if to rattle the thoughts away. "Never mind."

The vague dismissal of the subject barely discussed caused a sudden twist in Sherlock's stomach. It was as if John abandoning his train of thought was a rejection of Rose herself. Rose. The woman he...

...loved.

Sherlock had been so very close to confessing to being in a relationship with Rose that he suddenly felt as if he were left on a high trapeze without a safety net. He just wasn't sure John would react favourably.

Sherlock's head was buzzing, and as he turned back to his tea, he barely heard John mutter something about retrieving his wallet from between the sofa cushions. Sherlock bowed his head, as he tapped his fingers on the counter, absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Ah, Sherlock?"

The inflexion in John's voice indicated that the doctor had already tried to get Sherlock's attention at least once, so the detective turned around, lifting his brow in interest.

"See you tomorrow?" John asked him.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his reply a little rough around the edges.

John turned and made to exit through the kitchen door to the landing, when a cocktail of brain chemicals flooded Sherlock's central nervous system.

"John."

Doctor Watson paused on the landing, and gazed back through the doorway at Sherlock. "Yeah?"

Sherlock may have stared at John in silence for a moment longer than was necessary. His Mind Palace swiftly calculated the most probable outcome in response to his impending confession of love for a former prostitute.

After a steadying breath, and two rapid blinks to indicate he was functioning normally again, Sherlock finally spoke.

"Could you bring your laptop?"


Her legs were heavy, and every step accentuated each throb in her head. At catching sight of her door at the top of the stairwell, Rose exhaled deeply. In hindsight, perhaps she should've postponed brunch with her mother, not that the older woman had even asked her daughter as to the cause of her pale, clammy visage and bloodshot eyes.

"You've hardly eaten anything," Mrs Sulford had complained in the abrupt, accusatory tone that Rose had come to loathe over the years.

"I think I'm coming down with something."

All Rose wanted to do was to flop onto her bed, fully clothed, and sleep for the rest of the day, like an adolescent who had no responsibilities. She would wake only when Sherlock arrived. Thoughts of the detective had made her heart flutter in excitement, and Rose had found herself replaying in her mind Sherlock's uncharacteristic but enthusiastic hug and inebriated murmurings several times during brunch. He had told her he loved her. Sherlock Holmes had whispered the magic words…

…while he was drunk, mind.

Her keys were already in her hand when she reached her floor. Rose unlocked the door, and pushed through, flicking the door so that it swung and clicked shut behind her. She briefly closed her eyes, letting her shoulders droop, and breathed in the calming serenity of her flat.

The light flutterings in her belly that kept her buoyant all morning would halt now and then, replaced by a leaden weight. Her mother's apparent cheery announcement had come at the wrong time, Rose thought in reflection. Her parents were thinking of moving to Scotland before the end of the year.

Scotland!

Her mother's aunt had suffered a bad fall at the end of winter, and Mrs Sulford wanted to be closer to help her cousins with the elderly woman's home care. Rose had never been close to her extended family up north, but having spent last Christmas with them, she felt extremely guilty when her first thoughts had been, So who's going to support me when I go back to studying in September?

"That's wonderful," she had forced herself to say out loud.

"And of course you'll still have to come to Perth for Christmas," her mother had insisted. The older woman's mouth snapped back into its default thin line. And no correspondence would be entered into.

Rose felt she was forever trying to make up for disappointing her parents during the last three years. She knew her father suspected Rose had been carrying on while the wonderful—in her dad's eyes—Jimmy Dodd was fulfilling his duties abroad for Queen and Country. Carrying on, all right. And being paid for it, Dad. A filthy whore, I was. She also thought Mr Sulford was aware she worked in a strip club. Her parents moved in the same social circles as Corporal James Dodd's parents, so if Jimmy knew, then surely his parents knew, too. Rose could imagine her mother pretending not to hear that bit of information. But that would explain the woman's permanent scowl of disapproval.

Rose shed her coat at the same time that she pushed away her dark thoughts regarding her parents. Spending time in her mother's company these days usually left her feeling exhausted. When they had initially reconciled late last year, Mrs Sulford at least made an effort to be pleasant. Now she was back to her usual dragon self.

Rose's bed beckoned, so she vowed not to think about it anymore today. Hopefully, some time during the early evening, Sherlock would arrive and silently slip into bed and curl his naked body around hers, she thought. That would be a welcome, if not delicious, way to wake up.

Rose spun around to hang her coat by the door, and was startled to see Sherlock's Belstaff already occupying the second hook.

"Rose?" the man himself called from the vicinity of her room at that same moment, having heard the sound of the door shutting.

Hearing his voice elevated Rose to great heights, and she hastened to her bedroom, calling out, "I wasn't expecting you til tonight."

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in Rose's bed, propped up by several of her pillows, and clad in pyjamas, with the quilt pulled up to his waist. Rose's computer was perched on his lap. As she entered the bedroom, a warm grin spread across Sherlock's face, and he moved the computer to the middle of the bed.

"I needed an afternoon kip," he began, as Rose rounded the bed, "so I didn't want to fall asleep at home, only to wake—"

His explanation was abruptly cut short when Rose mounted him, and laid her lips on his. Her mouth stirred an impatient need inside him, and Sherlock could taste her sweetness mingled with a desperate hunger. He drew her to him, grinding their pelvises together, as he firmly cupped the nape of her neck and returned her kiss.

Sherlock concluded that Rose had heard his declaration of love last night. It was the only explanation for her over-amorous attention right now, but he decided that this was a much better way to have his sentence finished for him. He'd deal with the fallout from his confession later.

Sherlock tugged at Rose's clothing, wanting to feel her soft, naked curves in an instant, such was the sharp arousal she had invoked in him. She had momentarily disarmed him, but Sherlock Holmes had always been a quick study when it came to making love to this woman.

When Rose allowed Sherlock to breathe again, the detective held her close and murmured, "Hello, Rose. Would you like your 'Hello' kiss now?" His hands were already underneath her shirt, warming her skin. His fingertips traced the outer edge of her bra, and in one quick movement, he had the hook unfastened. In a rush of fabric, both shirt and bra were discarded.

As Sherlock's mouth crushed Rose's this time, he held her fast, and swiftly rolled them so she was pinned underneath him. A muffled cry against his lips prompted Sherlock to remember the computer that he had placed in the middle of the bed.

"Sorry," he rasped, and eased away from Rose so she could draw the laptop out from underneath her. "I think it's okay," Sherlock added, on briefly examining the offending device.

He deposited it onto the bedside table, while Rose used the break in proceedings to slip off her shoes. She let them tumble to the floor, then turned to greedily eye the half-naked man beside her. He had also taken the opportunity to pull his pyjama shirt over his head and had tossed it lightly onto the floor.

The same thought seemed to pass between them, and the pair silently and swiftly shed the remainder of their clothing. As they reconnected, their movements were sudden, yet synchronised, a blur of limbs, and hurried whispers.

It was the unspoken words in every glance, each sigh and gasp made by Rose that had Sherlock's heart pounding. She loved him, and he loved her, and pretty soon she would want to hear him say those words again. Sherlock had to circumvent any opportunity Rose had for voicing her feelings, for he had no intention of doing likewise.


"Only to wake in the early evening to find that I was still away from you."

"What?" Rose asked, her chest still heaving after Sherlock had rolled from her.

"I was finishing my sentence from before."

There was a faint smile gracing Sherlock's lips. Rose had shifted to her side to study him. She had no idea what the beginning of his sentence had been before she had accosted him earlier. She reached out and cupped his face, before pressing a light kiss onto his lips.

It was there in her moist gaze, Sherlock thought. The sentiment. She was going to utter those words any moment now, and she would expect a suitable response from him. This was no longer the goodbye ritual, where he had the luxury of grinning broadly, kissing the top of her head, then leaving. She would say those three words, raise her eyebrows at him, and he would smile, kiss her forehead, then turn over.

Totally not acceptable. Even he knew that.

"So I thought I would come over here and sleep instead," Sherlock added, sticking doggedly to the same topic. "Are you going to have an afternoon kip, too?" he added, fixing Rose with a boyish grin in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Sherlock thought his distraction must have worked, for Rose's face split into a broad grin in response.

"Yep. I'm dying to go to sleep. Just need to go to the bathroom first, then I'll join you."

She kissed his cheek, then slipped from the bed. Rose grabbed her dressing gown from the hook behind her door. Drawing it around herself and pausing in the doorway, she turned to Sherlock.

"I love you," she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile. With a wink, she was gone, leaving Sherlock no opportunity to say anything at all.