Chapter 40 - The Suffocating Chains of Domesticity

Rose wearily opened her eyes and her head spun a little. She tried to judge the time by the temperature in the air and by the amount of light filtering into her room. Her growling stomach and presence of pyjamas further confused her. Is it morning, did I have dinner? A shower? Sex with my boyfriend?

Oh!

Yes, yes she did, Rose thought, smiling to herself and rolling over so that she faced the middle of the bed.

Sherlock Holmes also lay on his side, facing her, fast asleep. It seemed the Consulting Detective needed to recover from his night on the town far more than Rose did. When Rose had returned to bed after showering, she found that Sherlock had nodded off. She hoped he hadn't felt too exposed when she had uttered those three words outside their normal context. She had made a swift exit so that he didn't feel obliged to say anything in return. The poor man, she thought, smiling to herself.

Rose silently slipped out of bed, and made for the bathroom. Once she'd finished, she entered the kitchen, and tried to decide if she felt like tea and toast with plum jam, as if it were breakfast time, or the vegetable soup she was intending to make them for dinner.

Vegetable soup, she finally decided, thinking she could always freeze it and keep for her lunches during the week if both she and Sherlock desired something else or nothing at all, as in Sherlock's case.

Rose had finished chopping most of the vegetables when she heard the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut. She paused her soup preparation to fill the kettle, then she set out two mugs for tea.

Not long after she had resumed chopping a couple of parsnips, she felt the warm presence of a Consulting Detective.

"I feel awful," Sherlock remarked, his voice all gravelly from sleep. He slid his arms around Rose and murmured into her neck, "Why didn't you stay in bed with me?"

"I was hungry. I need food."

"Food. Dull," Sherlock remarked, nuzzling into Rose's neck some more. He inhaled deeply, allowing her signature scent to flood his olfactory system—coconut-scented soap, and apple-pear shampoo. Apple, pear, coconut, Rose, his mind chanted as a signal to his brain to release that all important dopamine.

"Look out," Rose warned, "I have a knife and I'm not afraid to use it."

She tried to continue with her task, but she also wanted to enjoy the closeness brought on by Sherlock's spontaneous hugging. She was quite enjoying his cuddly mood probably produced by his hangover.

"But how will you dispose of my body?" Sherlock murmured into her ear.

"Not everyone who commits murder necessarily wants to get away with it," Rose replied.

Sherlock chuckled. "Where's the fun in that?"

Succumbing to the practicalities of the situation, Rose gestured toward the kettle with her knife and said, "Why don't you make our tea? I won't be long."

She felt Sherlock stiffen as he straightened up. His arms remained around Rose, but he had loosened his hold.

At the forefront of Sherlock's mind was the determination to set something straight. When Rose had left the room after their frenzied afternoon love-making session, and had uttered those three words once more, Sherlock's stomach had flip-flopped. Dread—that's the feeling that had been invoked. Rose had seemingly let him off the hook that time by making a swift exit, but on the next occurrence, he was not going to avoid the awkward silence that would envelope them. Her face would be full of expectation, and he would not be able to deliver the goods.

"I want to say something first," he said, his voice pitched low.

Rose's skin prickled at the sudden disappearance of Sherlock's previously playful tone. She held her breath as she placed the knife down onto the bench. She wasn't sure why those words had momentarily filled her with dread. Or maybe it was how he had said it? Sherlock's loose embrace allowed her to turn around and face him.

"Please don't tell me you don't eat vegetable soup," Rose said in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I've spent ages chopping these."

"No," Sherlock replied unnecessarily. His gaze was full of purpose, making Rose's heartbeat become erratic. "It's about last night."

Rose's insides churned monstrously. "I know," she said, attempting to keep the tremor from her voice. "You were drunk, and you didn't mean it. It's okay," she continued, trying not to gush too much. "It's funny, really." She forced a tiny smile to her face, but she was only kidding herself and she knew it.

Sherlock's expression had softened, but his gaze didn't waver. "No," he said. "You're wrong." His eyes flicked away from Rose's face as he tried to compose his thoughts. He was supposed to have analysed the sentiment, so he could determine when and if he could alter his philosophical mindset enough to allow him to say it. His drunken state had bypassed that thought process, and now he was left with the consequences.

Sherlock brought his hands from around Rose's back to rest lightly on her arms.

"I was drunk, yes, definitely," he said, meeting her gaze again. "Not a state I'll be returning to in the foreseeable future, or any future for that matter. But you're wrong about the integrity of my words." Sherlock paused again as he carefully studied Rose's expression. Had all hope left her? Was she even breathing? "I did mean it, Rose," he stated, noting with a curious interest the subtle change in her eyes that told him she was relieved. "But I..." He looked away again, his eyes taking in the myriad of shapes and colours of the vegetables Rose had already diced. The words that were forming in the back of his throat all bunched together, forming an uncomfortable lump there. Sherlock swallowed hard and made a second attempt as he locked eyes with Rose once more. "I'm not likely to say those words again."

Rose's head was still buzzing with Sherlock admitting that he had meant it, and she had to think twice to understand the meaning behind his subsequent statement.

"You're not going to say it again," she repeated, her emotions torn between the brightly lit joy she felt for his revelation and the shadow of disappointment that was cast due to his qualification.

"No."

"Why... I mean... I'm not surprised, really," she stammered, dropping her gaze. Of course she wasn't surprised. At the time she had initially confessed to being in love with him, she had already handed him a get out of jail free card.

I don't expect you to return the sentiment, she had told him. This is something I wanted to say because I think it's important to let you know how I feel right now... I know you don't say such things, and I don't expect you to.

But he loved her too, she reasoned, and he had told her so, just the once. That should be enough for her. Shouldn't it?

Disappointment rippled through Sherlock at the thought that Rose wasn't surprised by his statement. She knew him better than most though, so why did he have an issue with her already assuming he wasn't capable of saying it again?

"It's not something that I would normally say," he explained.

Rose lifted her gaze and said, "I know, Sherlock." She flattened her palm against his chest, and affectionately patted him there. "It's fine." Rose took in a steadying breath, and stretched up to plant a brief kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Now make the tea," she added, and she turned around again before Sherlock could say anything else.

Sherlock left Rose, and stood just one metre away while he busied himself preparing their mugs of tea. It felt like they were miles apart in that moment, both of them lost in their own, but slightly similar, thoughts.

Everything was ruined, Sherlock thought. The goodbye ritual had to be shelved. There would be no joy in the one-sided declaration now. Both of them would know only too well that there was an unspoken reciprocation, but the air would be heavy in its absence.

Goodbye 'goodbye ritual,' Sherlock thought in sullen silence, as he dunked the teabags into the mugs.

"Of course you're going to have to learn how to say those words fairly soon," Rose said, as if they had never stopped conversing. She had slid the last of the vegetables from the chopping board into the pot of stock that was bubbling away on the stove-top. "At least the 'love you' part. It's in your speech remember?"

Sherlock look over to Rose, his brow furrowed. "What part?" he asked.

"The bit where you say how much you love John, and that you would never let him down."

"But I have no intention of saying that." Sherlock turned and leant against the countertop, crossing his arms in front of him, as the tea stood steeping in their mugs. "In fact, your whole speech—"

"Yes, you've deleted it from your computer," Rose said, one corner of her mouth curving into a smile. "Don't think I don't know about that."

Rose strode purposefully out of the kitchen and toward her bedroom. Sherlock straightened up, a small amount of panic rippling through his body. Rose re-emerged from her room carrying her laptop.

"Bring the tea into the living room," she said, making herself comfortable on the sofa. "We'll go over the speech again in here. I've emailed it to myself," she announced smugly.

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent. He would give Rose these few moments to revel in her triumph over him. Just those few seconds before she discovered...

"Have you deleted the email I sent myself?" she called from the living room as Sherlock poured milk into the mugs.

Sherlock cleared his throat then replied in the affirmative. As he entered the living room carrying their beverages, Rose asked, "And the file stored in the cloud?"

"Deleted."

"And..." Rose gazed toward the cupboard where she normally stashed all her papers.

"And I've destroyed the hardcopy, yes," Sherlock confirmed. He placed the mugs down onto the coffee table, and took a seat in the armchair, a good one metre away from the potential ire of Rose.

Rose left the sofa, and headed over to her handbag.

"Memory stick?" she called over her shoulder.

"Completely wiped," Sherlock replied before calmly taking a sip of his tea.

Rose retrieved the aforementioned memory stick from her bag, and strode over to the front door with it. She slipped her feet into Ugg boots and grabbed at her coat.

This sequence of actions confused Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Rose drew her coat around her dressing gown and made to exit her flat. With a hint of mischief in her eyes, she replied, "I'll just be a minute. I haven't got my key so let me in when I knock."

And before Sherlock could get another question out, she was gone.

Damn! Hadn't he thought of everything?

When Rose returned, Sherlock was using her laptop to trawl through the Ghost-date forum once again. He left the armchair to open the door when she knocked.

"Right," Rose said, slipping of her coat and toeing out of her boots. "I've got a copy from Tonya."

Sherlock's shoulders visibly drooped. Tonya Small! He always missed something!

Sherlock was ordered to sit next to Rose on the sofa, while she read 'his' speech to him. Sherlock loathed the bulk of it, but Rose assured him it was for the best.

"You made one huge error, and you don't even realise it," Sherlock told Rose, during the second read-through."

"What?"

"How is anybody going to believe a word of this, when I'm expressing so many uncharacteristic sentiments? Most people there will already know me as a rude, ignorant, obnoxious arsehole. How can I talk about love and how wonderful weddings are, and raise a toast to the happy couple when all I can think about is the death-watch beetle?"

"The what?"

Ignoring Rose's query, Sherlock stood and began pacing as he spoke. Rose had heard his theory about marriage before. When they had last worked on his speech, she thought she'd let him get it all off his chest just the once and that would be the end of it. Obviously the man still dwelled on all of the negative aspects of John and Mary's union and the ceremony that was to occur in honour of it.

"Okay, fine," she said, interrupting Sherlock's monologue about how he found weddings to be a celebration of all that was false and specious, amongst other things, in this morally-comprised world. "I'll add some of the things you've said, so people can see that you've come to realise your own short-comings—"

"Sorry, what?"

"As long as you wrap it up in my nice prose."

"What did you say?"

Rose remained stubbornly silent as she tapped away at the computer. Sherlock brooded beside her, secretly thinking that Rose was somehow turning his speech into some kind of self-therapy session for him.

"And I've changed the bit where you say you love John and you'll never let him down," she said eventually.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he scanned Rose's screen.

"I can still see the word 'love'," he said.

"Yes, but now I have you speaking on behalf of you and Mary. See... 'in short, the two people who love you most in the world.' I've distanced you from the sentiment a little. And I've got, 'we will never let you down.' So it's not just you, okay?"

Sherlock scowled. It was still not okay, despite Rose adding the bit that he had thought of himself (a nice bit), stating that John was, 'the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.' Rose had given him a kiss for saying that, and she had remarked, "That's really sweet, Sherlock."

He knew he'd told Rose a while ago that John had uttered those same words in front of an unseen Sherlock, at the detective's grave. She'd obviously forgotten. This would be a little thing between himself and John then. Touching.

The whole wedding was pointless; the speech, even more so. He would later adlib, 'today we honour the death-watch beetle,' and perhaps he'd include the rest of his views too, without Rose knowing. If she wasn't going to be at the wedding, what did it matter what he added. And besides, he thought that statement was particularly poetic, and only the intelligent and worthy would understand the meaning behind it.


Right, Sherlock thought, opening the lid of computer number seven. That should be enough.

The Consulting Detective was simulating a room full of ghost-affected women for the purposes of eliminating unlikely candidates and questioning the remainder. It would aid in his Mind Palace wanderings if he had to physically move between conversations. John had arrived with not only his own laptop, but also Mary's, as requested by Sherlock. The day before, the detective-genius had baffled the doctor with the excuse that the chat forum would only allow one sign-on from a single IP address for the same user, and therefore Sherlock would need multiple machines to sign-on more than once.

Little did the doctor know that all of the computers would be connected to the same router, which would have the effect of offering a single IP address to the server on which the forum was hosted for all of Sherlock's user sessions.

But John didn't need to know that.

Sherlock had also commandeered his landlady's device, and a lucky thing that he did too. Mrs Hudson had informed the detective that the computer he used before his 'death', his beloved HP notebook, was stored in John's old room upstairs, along with the doctor's old notebook, and a previous notebook of Sherlock's. Sherlock had also acquired Rose's laptop when he had left her place that morning. He'd forgotten to ask her permission, as she had left for work before he'd risen from bed, and before he had had a chance to think about the day ahead. It didn't matter. He'd return it later that evening before she missed it.

Rose.

The woman was a genius in her own way.

After they'd finished working on the speech, to Rose's satisfaction, the remainder of the evening had been rather pleasant by contrast. He'd sampled some of Rose's soup—not too bad—then they'd cuddled on the sofa watching telly like they used to, until Rose had to start her counselling work at 10pm. They moved to the bedroom, where they made love again, and Sherlock had fallen asleep while Rose worked beside him until 2am.

In the morning, Rose woke him with light kisses all over his face, just like he always expected and had come to enjoy. As he slowly stirred awake, thoughts of the dreaded goodbye ritual seeped into his mind. He couldn't fake staying asleep, and therefore avoid facing the sounds of silence brought on by Rose's sole declaration of love. Rose was kissing his lips now, and that always prompted him to wake fully.

"Sherlock, I'm going now," she whispered against his lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and tried to telepathically warn Rose against following their ritual this morning. Of course, telepathy was a load of rubbish, but Sherlock didn't want fear to be present in his eyes in an effort to dissuade Rose from saying what she was about to say.

Rose's own expression was one of deep affection, though, so Sherlock held his breath and hoped that The Henry VIII Hotel across the road would explode due to an act of terrorism, or something.

Rose appeared to be studying Sherlock's eyes, before a tiny smile played on her lips.

"Do you love me?" she whispered.

Sherlock's eyes widened minutely. What was she doing, he thought. But wait! This makes it all possible, doesn't it?

"Yes," he replied, in a husky just-woken-up voice.

Rose's smile broadened, and she said, "I love you, too."

Sherlock's heart actually defied the laws of biology, and shifted to the left. Just a bit. A little tiny bit. Well, at least it felt like it had.

Sherlock's face lit up as if he were hearing the words for the first time. This was a first time, though. The first of many more uplifting goodbye rituals where they would both declare their love. Or Rose would declare Sherlock's on his behalf. A minor technicality, but it would work!

Sherlock's heart soared, and he pulled Rose toward him, and gifted her with a special love-fueled soft goodbye kiss.

The Consulting Detective had carried the emotions that this moment had brought with him all the way home. As he stepped over the threshold into his flat, though, he felt inspired enough to want to solve the case of the Ghost dates. He cast all feelings aside, and flexed his mind.

John had arrived, Mrs Hudson had made Sherlock a late breakfast, and his mind was on fire. It was a lot like old times, although John had remarked that Sherlock was 'wearing yesterday's shirt.' How uncharacteristically observant of the doctor.

Disappointingly, it ended up being a case that wasn't worth solving. And it was with John's help in the end, that had brought them to the final conclusion. Sherlock had initially discovered that the 'ghost' was stealing the identities of corpses, getting the names from the obituaries, and using the deceased men's flats as his love nests for his dates. It was one man, whose assumed identity lived for a day. A Mayfly man.

In answer to the question of Why, John had provided the detective with a possible solution. The man was married. Trapped, bored, and clever. This was his way of playing the field, undetected.

It was all dull in the end, but at least Sherlock had one more case anecdote to include in his wedding speech. Rose had warned Sherlock against mentioning too many cases where Sherlock's brilliance outshone the groom's. This would do. He would've preferred using the Elephant in the Room case, except that one was classified.

The rest of the week flew by, and after a particularly stressful night at the Rehearsal Dinner, Sherlock found himself in his own bathtub, being pampered by Rose. She had taken to sneaking in, after midnight, on some nights, necessitated by the fact that she no longer worked at the stripclub, and therefore the routine of getting a cab to Baker Street on a Saturday night no longer existed.

Sherlock had managed to offend not just the one, but both bridesmaids who were present, Cath and What's-her-name, along with the vicar at the dinner. John had remarked that it was a good thing Janine Hawkins, the maid of honour, hadn't been able to make it. She would've decked Sherlock for the comments he'd made. Mary had hummed in agreement, and Sherlock realised that her allegiance had made the evening all the more uncomfortable for him. Mary usually took his side, not John's. What was going on here—was the wedding making mismatched allies of the bride and groom?

Sherlock dwelled on the night far more than he would've in the past, and he was glad when Rose had sent him a text, saying that she'd wait for him at his flat, instead of Sherlock going to hers.

"I don't see why I had to show up at all," he said, leaning back against Rose as she wrapped her limbs around him and attempted to lather his chest with a loofah. "The maid of honour got to skip it. Still haven't met her, by the way, so I imagine she's some kind of secret assassin."

Rose chuckled lightly at the comment.

"I think you should take a short holiday after the wedding," she suggested softly. She could feel Sherlock relaxing into her.

There was one week to go until the wedding. Sherlock's stress had remained at a manageable level until tonight. There were no more milestones left to accomplish, just the wedding itself. Rose felt that she might need a holiday after babysitting Sherlock and his see-sawing moods in the lead up.

"Yes, I could show up at Mary and John's honeymoon destination," he quipped.

"Don't you dare."

"No, probably not. They're going somewhere dull and quaint. And they're not even going straight after the wedding. Something about waiting for the weather to warm up. So much for tradition."

The couple maintained a comfortable silence, with Sherlock closing his eyes and leaning his head back against Rose's shoulder as she loofah'd his chest, neck and both arms. He hummed a couple of times in contentment.

"So where would Sherlock Holmes take a holiday?" Rose asked, after a fashion.

"Why would I need a holiday?"

"To have a break from work."

Sherlock scoffed. "If I wanted a break from work, I would stop seeing clients."

Rose traced lazy circles onto Sherlock's chest with the loofah.

"Tell me a place you'd want to go then, as a hypothetical, to get away for a while. Like you did at Christmas when you went to Tibet. There must be other destinations?"

"I'd like to go wherever you are," Sherlock replied, almost immediately, and without thinking.

Rose hugged Sherlock tightly, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "That's a lovely thing to say." She held him for a moment longer before resuming her pampering. "My last holiday was kind of an obligatory trip—Scotland, for Christmas, with my parents. And before that... I don't remember. Somewhere in Sussex." Somewhere in Sussex, with Jimmy Dodd.

Rose had lied to Sherlock. She did remember that trip quite clearly. Corporal James Dodd was taking his R&R leave, so his sexual appetite was enormous—two weeks off after a six month tour. Not unusual. He didn't ask if she'd like to accompany him to where a few of his army buddies were gathering for a week of boozing and fucking; he'd just assumed she'd be his willing companion, to wait for him in a shitty motel room while he got completely smashed in the nearby pub. He'd return and demand sex, rough sex, after which he'd pass out.

Rose had been feeling guilty because the previous week, she'd taught Sherlock Holmes how to bring her to orgasm while they sat in his armchair by the fire. At the time, her affection for the client whose virginity she had taken, had been growing with every encounter. She was teaching a client, a man who was paying her for sex, how to be a considerate lover, and here she was with her boyfriend who was currently treating her like a whore.

To be fair to Jimmy, Rose had reasoned in her own mind at the time, he wasn't usually like that. Something really bad must've happened during his tour recently, that had caused him to want to wipe himself out night after night, forgetting who Rose was, and what she was supposed to mean to him.

Rose's heart ached at the memory of both the men in her life at the time.

"So where would Rose Sulford like to go?" Sherlock asked, breaking into Rose's thoughts, and unaware of her trip down memory lane.

Rose forced back tears. Here was Sherlock Holmes considering her needs once more. He was her boyfriend now.

"I've always wanted to go to Paris," she replied, in a faint whisper as if she were a little girl who had been given permission to confess her dream destination for the first time.

Sherlock took a second or two to digest that information, before he stated, "So I'll take you to Paris then."

The tears that had been stinging her eyes, and causing pressure around her sinuses, finally spilled. Big blobby tears, that coursed a determined path down her face, before she hastily wiped them away.

"I didn't mean... You don't have to do that." Rose sniffed, a sound that prompted Sherlock to immediately sit up and turn around to gaze at her.

"Why are you crying? What did I say?" he demanded of her, in bewilderment rather than in an accusatory manner.

Rose tried to laugh at Sherlock's expression. Even now, he was still an innocent.

"I'm happy," she said, in between sniffs. "And you're so wonderful."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked, lifting a brow and regarding Rose with suspicion.

"Yes," she reaffirmed, reaching for him.

Sherlock leant forward, and claimed the kiss that he apparently deserved. He then turned around again and waved a flippant hand in the air while saying, "So carry on with your wiping thing again, since I'm so wonderful."

Rose laughed lightly, and mused that some days she may just like to thump him instead.

A contented silence descended on them once more, until Sherlock idly traced a hand along Rose's thigh underneath the water.

"Sex in the bath?" Rose whispered. "Or foreplay?"

"Foreplay only," Sherlock immediately replied, his eyes still closed. "You know my thoughts on sex in the bath, Rose. I made a list."

"Just checking."

The sound of swishing water combined with Rose's soothing massage, and the smooth texture of her skin beneath his fingertips, had a soporific effect on the detective. Rose could feel his body getting heavier against her, and his gentle caress of her legs getting slower.

"Are you going to sleep?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Of course not."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose. She knew Sherlock didn't like to display any kind of weakness or show that he wasn't in control of a situation. It came as no surprise when the man abruptly sat up again.

"Let me do you now," he bid her.

Rose didn't mind at all. Sherlock stood, and turned around, before sitting down again, so all Rose had to do was turn her back to him, then lean against his chest.

"This reminds me of a movie," she said, as Sherlock began lathering soap onto her exposed skin.

"What movie?"

"A movie about a prostitute and businessman. They fall in love. He's an arsehole, and she has a heart of gold. There's a scene where they're in the bath together. Actually, it's quite awful."

Sherlock's closed-mouth laugh resonated through his chest, which vibrated against Rose's back.

"And you have a heart of gold?" he asked, his eyes glistening with mirth as Rose turned her head to look up at him.

"I didn't say I did. She did. The hooker in the film."

"Well, you said he was an arsehole."

"And you immediately identified with him?"

Sherlock paused his lathering, and murmured in Rose's ear, "Well, I'm not the prostitute."

He punctuated his statement, by planting a kiss on Rose's cheek. His breath warmed her skin and Rose relaxed against Sherlock's chest as he continued 'pampering' her. As his efforts dipped lower, Rose reminded him that it was meant to be a massage, at least initially.

"I'm moving right along," he informed her. "Taking it to the next level."

"Not yet. I want my massage first."

Sherlock did as Rose had ordered. He always enjoyed watching her submit herself to his ministrations anyway.

"And what happened in the end," he asked eventually, his mind drifting back to the topic previously discussed. "Did he stop being an arsehole?"

It took Rose a split second to figure out what Sherlock was talking about. "Yes, I believe he did."

"And did she stop working as a prostitute?"

Rose smiled to herself before replying. "Yes."

Sherlock was silent once more, quietly pondering how a movie could portray what had happened between him and Rose, an experience he thought was unique to them.

"Did any well-meaning friends tell them that he was now getting sex for free?" he asked. There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, that Rose did detect.

"I don't know," she replied. "I don't think the movie covered that bit."

"Why, what happened?'

Rose sat up, causing Sherlock to stop his pampering. She twisted around so she could face him. He seemed unnecessarily worried. "Sherlock, they lived happily ever after."

Rose attempted to reassure him with a smile, but Sherlock only frowned at her.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means, from that moment onwards, they lived happily together, content in each other's company."

Sherlock seemed satisfied with Rose's explanation, so he indicated that she turn around again. After another minute or so of sponging and loofah'ing, Sherlock stopped again. He wound his arms around Rose and spoke in a low voice into her ear.

"You know, Rose—I think we're already living happily ever after."

Rose turned her head toward him, her response caught in her throat. Sherlock was grinning broadly at her, and his eyes were twinkling.

"Yes," she replied, her voice hoarse with emotion. "I think we are."