A/N: Thanks so much for continuing to read, despite me going AWOL! It was a much-needed break and I'm all set to go—creative juices are definitely flowing!
Chapter 43 - Uncomprehending in the Face of the Happy
Sherlock's eyes met Rose's. Her expression remained largely impassive until she blinked. She attempted a half-smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. Sherlock's stomach twisted at the sadness he detected there, the veiled disappointment. His expression softened in response, before he stepped out onto the portico, closing the door gently behind him. He was quite conscious of the fact that he was still clad in his dressing gown with nothing else at all on underneath.
John Watson—who had begun pacing, the fingers on his left hand twitching in agitation—whirled around. He took a step toward Sherlock and held himself rather stifly.
"I suppose I should be thankful you didn't install her on the top table," the doctor remarked icily.
Sherlock's chest tightened at the comment, and he inhaled sharply.
"John," he began, and he held a hand up in a placatory manner. "Before you—"
"Since you didn't, I guess it's none of my business... what you do, and with whom, in your own time."
Sherlock felt a prickling of his skin. Why should he feel guilty about this? Why should he accept John Watson's disapproval? It was John who had barged in, uninvited, and who had interrupted a tender moment between Sherlock and the woman he loved.
"No," Sherlock replied, meeting John's icy gaze with his own grey frostiness. "I suppose it's not."
John drummed his fingers on his thigh and stared into the distance as if reconsidering his words. He shook his head minutely again, and cleared his throat. When he faced Sherlock once more, the detective had narrowed his eyes at him in readiness.
"So, I was going to say this during my groom's speech, but since we had a potential murder to investigate, I didn't get to make a speech. So I intended saving it until the wedding breakfast instead." John sighed when Sherlock remained motionless, the detective only blinking once to signal his attentiveness. "It's quite clear now why you weren't going to show up this morning, so I'm saying this here and now before Mary and I leave for our honeymoon in a couple of hours."
Sherlock furrowed his brow at this bit of information.
"Yes, I know," John continued, noting the detective's quizzical expression. "We told you we weren't leaving for a month. That was to put you off... you know... planning our honeymoon. Not that we don't..." John drew his mouth into a thin line. "Look, all I want to say is, we—Mary and I—appreciate all you've done for us, in organising our wedding. You put in a great deal of effort, and demonstrated... thoroughness..."
Sherlock continued to scrutinise his friend, who was now obviously reciting the words from a not-so well-rehearsed speech. Sherlock didn't need to hear this. He didn't want John's thanks and acknowledgement for a project Sherlock had only undertaken in order to see that it was completed to the highest possible standards. He didn't want to hear words of praise while receiving looks of disdain. He let John's words wash over him, until they died away, with the doctor concluding his speech with his customary clearing of the throat.
Sherlock no longer wanted to talk about the wedding, and he cared less about the honeymoon.
"Whatever you know about Rose," he began, as if John hadn't just rambled out a poor excuse for a thank you speech, "this is not what you think."
"I... I don't want to know, Sherlock. Really." John backed away displaying the palms of his hands in protest. "You should probably get dressed," he suggested, dropping his gaze to his best man's bare legs. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he added, a coldness creeping back into his voice, "I have guests to attend to."
The doctor spun on his heels, and marched away and out of sight when he rounded the corner of the building. Silence descended on Sherlock, and a wave of disappointment rippled through him. He hadn't defended Rose. He hadn't enlightened John about his relationship. He had stood there and let John Watson laud it over him as king of the high moral ground once more.
Sherlock clenched his jaw as his heart thudded dully in his chest. A gentle breeze caressed his legs and he shivered. Turning back to the door of his room, he reached for the door knob then realised that it would've latched automatically. Sherlock rapped sharply on the wood. He bowed his head and rubbed his fingertips over his brow while he waited for Rose to let him back in.
When she opened the door, she smiled at him, her eyes glistening with warmth.
"Room service?" she joked, and Sherlock responded with a weak smile.
He followed Rose into the room, noting that she had hastily changed out of her dressing gown and into street clothes while he had been outside with John.
"Everything sorted?" she asked, with only half a smile this time, as if she knew that it couldn't have been based on Sherlock's expression.
"I barely managed to get a word out."
Rose shrugged and reached for both Sherlock's hands as she stood in front of him.
"John's reaction, the look on his face," she said, "was pretty much what I expected to receive."
"It may be what you expected, Rose, but not what you deserve. I'm sorry."
"I didn't let you tell John about me at the time you wanted to," Rose explained. "You have nothing to apologise for."
I didn't try hard enough to make him listen, Sherlock thought.
Sherlock turned from Rose and walked across the room, stooping to retrieve the items of clothing he had shed the night before. Rose watched Sherlock hang up his wedding attire in silence. Of course it was her fault. Sherlock could've had a proper conversation with his best friend about his new found relationship ages ago. Of all the places and situations where John Watson had to stumble upon the couple it had to be here, when they both had been semi-naked and she had lain in bed, her rightful place as a sex worker. And he had to spot the fucking scarf tied to the bedhead. Nice prop there, Rose.
John Watson didn't encounter them when Sherlock was teaching Rose how to waltz. He hadn't witnessed Sherlock spinning Rose around in the entrance to the strip club, then hear his friend declare his love for her. Doctor Watson wasn't there the night Sherlock broke down and cried on her shoulder when he realised he'd made a mistake in paying her to have sex with him. John didn't see the roses, the greeting cards, the candles around the bathtub, or the fireworks from Big Ben. What Sherlock's best friend did see was the aftermath of sex, or the precursor to having sex. Presumably paid sex. With a prostitute.
Of course it was her bloody fault. She did get the reaction she deserved.
Sherlock untied his dressing gown sash, then slipped the robe from his shoulders, dropping it to the ground. Rose grabbed at her folder of papers and stowed it into her overnight bag while Sherlock retrieved his trousers from the wardrobe and looked around distractedly for his underwear. Rose found them by the table legs.
"Here," she said, lightly tossing them to Sherlock. She avoided looking at his naked form. She wasn't here for the sex. Of course not.
A tiny memory settled itself in her mind, before it grew larger and took on a new meaning—the time she had confessed to Sherlock at having snogged John Watson, and telling the doctor the morning after that she was really a prostitute. Sherlock had laughed, and had remarked that it would be funny if he were to bring Rose to the wedding as his plus one. John will think I paid a prostitute to be my guest at his wedding, Sherlock had said, while trying to maintain a serious expression. Entirely inappropriate… although, that would also be funny.
Rose huffed a small laugh at the memory of the smile playing on Sherlock's lips at the time, and of the Consulting Detective quaking with laughter. He could see the humour in the situation, so why couldn't she?
Sherlock looked up from his task of fastening his shirt buttons, his brow furrowed at Rose's reaction. Rose could no longer contain her mirth. She turned from Sherlock as she continued to chuckle.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
He moved toward Rose as she gestured towards the bed, her shoulders trembling in silent laughter.
"You," she replied, turning to face Sherlock. Her eyes were moist and her mouth curved into a smile. "Sherlock Holmes hired a prostitute for the weekend." Her subsequent light laughter filled the air, and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle along with her. "John," she said, and Sherlock gathered her up in his arms, his own eyes shining with affection.
"He was a bit upset," Sherlock volunteered.
Rose's smile faltered, but she added, "He'll be okay though, won't he?"
Sherlock continued to smile at Rose in reassurance. "The man forgave me for faking my own death. I'm sure he'll get over this eventually. He may rant and rave to Mary for a bit..."
"Mary." Rose raised her eyebrows in hope. "She'll at least set him straight, won't she?"
Sherlock bent his head toward Rose and drew her in tightly. Mary Watson, their confidante. If anyone could talk sense into the ex-army doctor, she was the one most qualified.
"I'm sure she will."
With the knowledge that the remaining wedding guests had departed by coach to Newbury, and the last of his duties complete, Sherlock was able to return to the cottage and finally make love to Rose. He had left her in their accommodation to wait for the arrival of her breakfast, while he double-checked that the additional catering staff and the DJ had all packed up and departed without incident, and that the transport for the guests was going to be on-time. He managed to avoid the newly-weds during these duties, deciding to trust in Mary Watson to assume the role of his and Rose's champion.
They lay in bed, post-coitus, with Sherlock threading his fingers through Rose's hair. The early afternoon stretched before them, since Sherlock had organised a late check-out and the second coach out of Sutton Mallet wasn't due for another two hours.
"So Paris it is, then," Rose said, as she smoothed the palm of her hand over Sherlock's bare chest.
"That's entirely up to you."
Rose felt giddy with excitement. Obviously John and Mary's honeymoon was first and foremost on the detective's mind when he brought up the subject, for the second time, reminding Rose of his promise to take her on a holiday. Paris had always been her dream destination, as she had confessed to him during their bubble-bath together over a week ago. While she tried to convince Sherlock that he was under no obligation to take her anywhere, he remained insistent. Rose was touched that he had even remembered the conversation in the bathtub.
"I'll have to give notice at work, so it can't be for a little while," she said.
Sherlock hummed in agreement, his eyes closed. He was in danger of falling asleep under Rose's soft caress and due to the broken sleep they'd had last night.
"And I'll have to get a passport, so there's that."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"You don't have a passport?"
Rose turned to look up at Sherlock, her chin resting on his chest.
"No, why would I?" she replied. "I've never been abroad. I've hardly been anywhere."
Sherlock tutted and furrowed his brow.
"Well this removes the spontaneity of the trip," he bemoaned.
"I'm not in a position to go on holiday at the drop of a hat."
"Clearly."
They were silent again as Rose lay her head back down, idly caressing Sherlock's chest as she determined an optimal time for her to take leave.
"Uni starts in September, so some time before then," she remarked, mostly to herself, but Sherlock heard her and clucked his tongue again. Rose continued with, "And I think you're meant to allow six weeks for a passport to be processed anyway."
"Not really," Sherlock countered. "My brother could fast-track the process for you."
Rose regarded Sherlock's offer in silence. There was no way she'd accept any help from Sherlock's strange, overbearing brother. One encounter with the government official was enough to disturb her for a lifetime.
"No, I think the end of August will be good, so that gives me plenty of time to get a passport."
Sherlock exhaled noisily. "Fine," he said resignedly. "I was actually thinking tomorrow, but if you can't manage to get away until August..."
Rose chuckled lightly. If only she were in a position to leave everything behind and jet off to Paris tomorrow. And Paris in the spring was supposed to be very romantic. She turned her head once more and looked up at Sherlock. He was doing his best to look sullen, so she rose up onto an elbow and narrowed the gap between them.
"Do you love me?" she whispered, only a breath away from his lips.
"Maybe."
A tiny laugh escaped Rose, and she pressed her lips to Sherlock's pout anyway. He was a man of many moods, fake or not.
She drew back again and added, "Because I love you."
Sherlock had narrowed his eyes, as if to convey his disinterest.
"Then lie down," he bid her, "and do nice things to me again."
Rose's face split into a smile, but she lay down dutifully anyway. She was also enjoying Sherlock's attentiveness, and he resumed carding his fingers through her hair when she drew lazy circles around his chest.
Sherlock's head was buzzing, his mind failing to quiet, despite the almost fullness of his heart due to the comforting presence of his lover. He should've been in a state of blissful content, or contented bliss—one or the other, if not for the ache in his chest as a result of John Watson's reaction earlier.
Sherlock drew in a deep breath as he pondered what John saw when he found Rose in Sherlock's bed. The last time John had laid eyes on Rose was at his stag night in the strip club. So Rose still worked in the adult entertainment industry—that would've been the last bit of information John had on her. He would've assumed Rose was still a service provider, a commodity, not a human being, and certainly not a woman Sherlock Holmes was in love with.
No, no, no, John had drunkenly insisted that night, when he spied Sherlock holding Rose's hand. You can't take them home with you.
Them.
Strippers.
Would John have concluded that Sherlock had recommenced his earlier arrangement with the sex worker since 'bumping into her' in the club? Why would he believe anything to the contrary? The doctor didn't have any other data to draw upon. If he had stormed back to his new wife that morning, and told her of his encounter, then Mary would've explained to him the real relationship between the detective and his companion, wouldn't she?
Sherlock decided that it wouldn't do to speculate any longer. The Watsons had left for their honeymoon, and he would just have to wait until they returned, whenever that was, to find out John's position.
The rest of Sunday passed without incident. Sherlock and Rose took the coach back to Newbury, as individuals. They did text each other now and again as they sat across the aisle from one another, and exchanged lingering looks and tiny smiles. When they alighted at Newbury station, they both then caught the train to London's Paddington Station. It was here that they parted ways, with Sherlock catching a cab to Baker Street and Rose choosing to walk the ten or so minutes to Leinster Gardens.
Sherlock had told Rose that he probably wouldn't get to see her until much later that evening. He assumed his landlady would be buzzing about on a post-wedding high, and that she would cook dinner for him, and possibly bustle around him straightening this and that as if spending twenty-four hours away from Baker Street had meant that the place had fallen into disrepair.
Mrs Hudson did not disappoint. Mr Chatterjee had sent up a Butter Chicken dish that Mrs Hudson shared with Sherlock. The detective let her words vaporise in the air around him—her opinions about the church service, the floral arrangements, the attempted murder, and the main course—until she mentioned how impatient John appeared to be at breakfast.
"I expect he was keen to get away and start their honeymoon. So romantic," the older woman sighed. "Of course, when Frank and I got married..."
Sherlock tuned out again. So John was probably agitated all throughout breakfast, he surmised.
There was one good thing to come out of John catching Rose in Sherlock's bed—Rose was no longer as hesitant to spend her evenings and weekends in Baker Street. It didn't matter as much now if she were to bump into John Watson, she'd told Sherlock one night as they lay snuggling on his couch. John had already given her 'the look,' so it couldn't possibly get any worse than that.
Sherlock and Rose alternated between their residences without too much thought or negotiating. Sometimes Rose would spend all night at Baker Street with no sign of the detective until the early hours, and other times Sherlock would hang out at Leinster Gardens, watching telly, when Rose had gone to the pub straight from work to have a few drinks with her colleagues. Sherlock only had that niggling feeling of discomfort whenever Rose spent time with Tonya Small, walking the older woman's dogs with her, or having a Sunday afternoon tea in the Clarence House Cannibal's flat upstairs.
Sherlock did wonder how John was faring, and he caught himself a few times categorising new cases as John-worthy and Not-John-worthy, as if he should only take on the John-worthy ones so he'd have an excuse to contact his friend.
When one week turned into two, and Sherlock had just closed the door on a client, having solved the dull mystery of a cheating wife, the detective decided to send a text to John Watson. Clear the air.
Wandsworth Prison escapee, he typed. Possibly hiding out in pub. Could be dangerous. —SH
There, he thought in satisfaction, as he dropped his phone into his jacket pocket. A dangerous criminal on the loose. Right up John's alley.
The Wandsworth Prison escapee had been in the news all week. Sherlock had no idea where he could be. Wouldn't stop the pair of them going for a wonder around south London though, would it?
Sherlock heard nothing back from John after waiting two days. On Monday morning he rather insensitively shook Rose awake. She was have a late sleep-in since she wasn't on opening the entertainment store that day.
"Ring for an appointment," Sherlock was saying as Rose slowly emerged from a sleep-induced fog.
"What?"
Sherlock thrust a phone in front of her face. It was on Speaker mode and she could hear the number on the other end ringing.
"What?" she croaked again, and she slowly pulled herself up into a semi-sitting position.
"Ask for an appointment," he said again, and when the person at the other end answered the phone, Sherlock lowered his voice and whispered, "with Doctor Watson."
Rose was still far too sleepy to question Sherlock's demands of her, and there was clearly someone on the other end of the phone who was waiting for a response.
"Can I make an appointment with Doctor Watson please," Rose asked. Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile in satisfaction of Rose's poorly-sounding voice.
"I'm sorry. Doctor Watson is away until next Monday," came the reply from the surgery's receptionist, clearly not Mary Watson. "Would you like to see Doctor Verner instead?"
Sherlock shook his head at Rose, so she replied, "No thank you."
Upon ending the call, Sherlock stood up and swept out of his bedroom. Rose rolled over and promptly fell back asleep.
If Sherlock had thought carefully about the information he had gleaned from that one phone call, he may have realised there was still the possibility that the Watsons had in fact returned to London, and that John was merely taking time off work. It wasn't until Thursday morning, when Sherlock was rushing downstairs, after being summoned by D.I. Lestrade, that he realised the error of his assumption.
The door to the street opened before him, and the detective had to pull up stops at the bottom of the stairs to prevent himself from barrelling into his ex-flatmate.
"John," he gasped in surprise.
"Sherlock," John said in a business-like tone that Sherlock cared little for.
"You're—"
"—just making a house-call," John finished for him, holding up a little paper package obviously from a pharmacy, then brushing past Sherlock into the passageway beyond.
"I didn't think you made house-calls."
"I do for people I care about. Excuse me."
John hastily retreated along the length of the passageway and through to the landlady's kitchen where Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson's affectionate greeting. The Consulting Detective remained frozen to the spot, his stomach churning once again at John Watson's abrupt dismissal of him.
Sherlock puzzled over what could possibly have transpired over the last few weeks between the honeymooners. Did they not discuss Sherlock and Rose at all?
Mary, Sherlock murmured to himself, and he turned and swiftly exited onto Baker Street. The door clicked shut behind him, effectively silencing his landlady's rising cackle.
Sherlock dialled Mary Watson's mobile number as he hailed a black cab. The taxi pulled up in front of him with a customary squeal of its brakes just as Mary answered.
"Sherlock," she said, presumably upon seeing his caller I.D.
"Welcome back, Mrs Watson," Sherlock said, injecting warmth and friendliness into his tone when in fact he felt the exact opposite. "Ludgate Square, please," he told the cabbie. He decided that he had a bit of time before he had to visit the D.I. at Scotland Yard.
Sherlock settled into the back of the cab as Mary queried how Sherlock knew where she was.
"Above the noise of that pointless pop music, a hair dryer and the babble of inane conversations, I can hear the quarter hour bells of St Paul's. You're visiting your regular hair salon in Ludgate Square aren't you? It's been over six weeks since your last trim. How about coffee? There's a nice little coffee shop around the corner in Creed Lane. I'll meet you there in ten minutes. I assume you've finished? I can hear the sound of traffic now. You must've exited onto the street."
Sherlock heard Mary sigh before she agreed to meet him. After they ended the call Sherlock tapped his phone to his lips, deep in thought.
What was the point of all this? Before his fake suicide, Sherlock would virtually ignore John Watson's huffing and puffing around him. If the detective acted insensitively, John would let him know either immediately or after a few days of loud exhaling. Sherlock rarely apologised, and almost certainly never sought forgiveness. Everything had changed since his return. He was continually on the back foot with his best friend ever since discovering how much his deception had hurt John. But this was extremely important to him. This was about John's perception of Rose. She deserved better than the look John had given her.
Sherlock entered the coffee shop on Creed Lane to find that Mary had not only found a cozy table for them in the far corner, but she had also ordered a pot of tea for them to share.
"I know you like to relax with a cup of tea," Mary said after rising and greeting Sherlock with a peck on his cheek. "You prefer coffee when you're working."
Sherlock smiled in admiration of Mary's thoughtfulness as they both took their seats.
"So I suppose you can deduce why I wanted to see you?" Sherlock asked. He always enjoyed posing intellectual challenges to worthy opponents.
Mary inhaled deeply and watched Sherlock refill her empty tea cup then pour one for himself.
"John went to deliver some hand cream to Mrs Hudson," she began. "She has a skin irritation, so—"
"She misplaced her rubber gloves and has been using cleaning products with her bare hands. He could've saved himself some pennies if he'd just bought her a new pair of gloves."
"So I assume you bumped into John," Mary finished, ignoring Sherlock's segue. "And typical of John, he would've given you the cold shoulder, and now you want to know why I hadn't managed to fix his mood during our honeymoon."
"Exactly."
Sherlock idly stirred in his sugar, then looked up at Mary. He lifted an eyebrow in expectation.
"I didn't tell him anything about Rose," Mary said simply. "Because his anger wasn't directed at Rose."
"Really."
Sherlock took a sip of tea as Mary narrowed her eyes at him.
"Sherlock, John's annoyed with you for keeping things from him, for not trusting him. And yes, this still stems from you not letting him know that you were alive for two years."
Sherlock replaced his tea cup and fixed Mary with a challenging glare. He said, "So John's annoyed at not being privy to me hiring a prostitute to bring to his wedding."
"Well... no..."
"Because had I told him in advance that I'd not only hired the venue, the DJ, and the floral arrangements, but I'd also booked in a sex worker to keep the best man amused on the wedding night, he would've been fine with that."
"No..."
"You didn't see the way he looked at her," Sherlock continued, his voice pitched low. "This has got everything to do with what he thinks of Rose."
Mary bowed her head and took a moment. She shook her head a little before looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze once more.
"Sherlock," she said. "You know John's not like that. He doesn't judge people by—"
"No, wait, I can feel another deduction coming on."
"You're on form today," Mary muttered.
Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as he locked eyes with the doctor's wife.
"You didn't tell John everything you knew about Rose," he said slowly, "because that would be admitting that you had been keeping something from him as well. Not a good position for a newly-wed to be in, I suspect."
Mary exhaled slowly and her eyes took in the rest of the café momentarily until she brought her focus back on Sherlock. She tilted her head thoughtfully, and folded her arms in front of her.
"That may be the case," she said, her gaze unwavering, "but you and Rose made the decision to keep your relationship a secret. I can't be held responsible for the discomfort you're feeling about John's reaction on finding out."
"Well he—"
"No, Sherlock. I've been encouraging John to keep an open mind. That's all I'm willing to do. But if you want him to accept Rose for who she is, and respect the relationship you have with her, then that's up to you. Talk to John yourself. I'm not doing it for you."
Sherlock set his jaw firmly and looked away from Mary. His hand came to rest loosely on the tea cup and he distractedly tapped the handle with his thumb. He had tried talking to John. The man had been too busy fuming to listen. Mary reached across and squeezed Sherlock's hand.
"You'll be fine," she said, then she bent down to retrieve her handbag from the floor beside her chair. "I've gotta run," she continued upon rising. "We've got Stella and Ted coming over for dinner."
Sherlock stifled an eyeroll as he too stood up. Mary shouldered her handbag then reached out once more and briefly rubbed Sherlock's arm.
"Rose is lovely," Mary offered. "She really is very sweet. It won't take John long to realise that."
Sherlock responded with a weak smile.
"You know what you and John need to bond over?" Mary continued, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "A case. A complicated, frustrating, dangerous case. One that has you running all over London. How about that?"
Without waiting for an answer, she stretched up and brushed Sherlock's cheek with her lips.
"See you later," she bid him. "Call me if you need anything."
Mary was across the room and to the door by the time Sherlock decided to sit back down and pour himself one more cup of tea. Of course he would entice John away from his GP duties with a case, but Sherlock needed the passage of time to mellow the man a little. And obviously Sherlock was desperate for a new case, one that was far more interesting than the trivia he'd been involving himself in lately.
As if the gods were answering a silent prayer, Sherlock's phone began to ring. His stomach flip-flopped at the prospect of something new and dangerous on the horizon, but just as quickly, it sank when he read the caller I.D.
Tonya Small.
.
A/N: Hope you don't mind me ending on another cliffie—a smaller one this time. You all know what's coming in this episode anyway, so the drama had to unfold eventually. I apologise in advance for that! Any concerns and objections should be taken up with the show's original writers, he he.
