A/N: Not much of an explanation for my quick update. I found myself writing today, and I just didn't stop! Might have something to do with having this chapter in my head for the better part of a year. So, apologies if it reads a bit rough and is littered with errors. I'll fix eventually :)
-elbafo
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Chapter 44 – His Pressure Point
Sherlock's skin felt tight and ill-fitted. It stretched taught over his bones and muscles, and he felt that at any moment it would tear open, unleashing a raging, vengeful monster from within. He clenched both his fists by his sides and tried to keep the trembling to a minimum.
Rose turned around, and reached out a soothing hand, which she ran up and down his arm.
"Sherlock, go sit down," she bid him in a voice barely above a whisper. "I'll bring you your tea in a minute."
"No," he replied, his voice thin and strained. "Not until I know you're okay."
"I'm fine," she replied calmly, but Sherlock thought her red-rimmed eyes lessened the conviction of her words. "I've already told you that."
"Yes, but why are you fine?"
The couple were interrupted by the velveteen voice of the owner of the premises in whose kitchen they were liaising.
"Mr Holmes," the Clarence House Cannibal crooned from her living area.
"Go back to Tonya," Rose told Sherlock. "She wants your help. She seems to think something needs to be done."
"No."
"Go!"
Tonya Small's voice floated closer. "Right now we need Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective..." The raven-haired gambling addict appeared at the entrance to her tiny kitchen. "...not Sherlock Holmes, the Concerned Boyfriend."
Sherlock clenched his jaw as he tore his gaze from Rose to Tonya.
"I told you, I don't know the man," he said.
"Well then," Tonya replied, turning away and sashaying back into her living room, "perhaps he's irrelevant."
Sherlock exhaled deeply as Rose returned to preparing a pot of tea. He reluctantly left the kitchen and crossed the living room to take a seat on Ms Small's tiny sofa.
Tonya Small leant closer to Sherlock and lowered her voice. "Of course our darling Rosebud is not fine. She's just putting on a brave face for you and I."
"I know."
Tonya straightened up again and pivotted the computer that sat on her coffee table so that the screen was angled toward the detective.
"So let's disregard the mysterious Mr Magnussen for the moment," she said, navigating away from the webpage that had filled the screen previously, "and concentrate on the equally hideous Mr Garvie."
"Permit me to play the detective card, Ms Small," Sherlock said, his mind finally kicking into gear. He reached for the laptop, and switched back to the page Tonya had just abandoned. "But Charles Augustus Magnussen is entirely relevant, even if I'm not immediately familiar with who he is. It was he who harassed Rose in her flat this evening, not John Garvie." Sherlock quickly surveyed the screen, his eyes rapidly scanning from left to right, top to bottom. He narrowed his eyes and continued with, "I want to know why the proprietor of CAM Global News is personally making house calls. If his media company is investigating an MP, doesn't he employ qualified investigative journalists? Why would the CEO of the company perform the leg work?" He turned the screen back to Tonya.
The pair looked up from the laptop as Rose entered the room carrying a tray containing a tea pot and three tea cups on matching saucers. Tonya Small always insisted that tea be prepared properly, and not in mugs with tea bags as so many uncultured people did these days.
Sherlock immediately rose from the sofa, a lump rapidly forming in his throat as he lay his eyes on Rose's ruddy cheeks once more.
"And now we have the transformation back into doting partner again," Tonya remarked. "Please concentrate, Mr Holmes. You had an interesting train of thought. Don't lose it."
Rose fixed Sherlock with a weary smile as Tonya shifted aside a handful of papers and knick-knacks to make room for the tea tray. Rose placed the tray onto the coffee table.
"I think I know what you're saying," Tonya murmured distractedly. She reached for the laptop and rapidly began typing.
Sherlock stood awkwardly to one side then gestured for Rose to sit down in the space he'd vacated.
"Stop fussing," Rose whispered to him. "I'm fine."
"No you're not," Sherlock said through narrow eyes. "You fled your own flat to come up here and take a shower in Ms Small's bathroom. You scrubbed your face until it was red raw and you keep trying to busy yourself instead of succumbing to emotion."
At that point, Tonya Small looked up in interest, a faint smile playing on her lips in appreciation of Sherlock's deduction.
"You're far from fine, Rose," he finished.
"I'm fine now," Rose added in a hollow voice.
"Now that we've cleared that up," Tonya said facetiously, "I think I've found something."
Sherlock rounded the coffee table as Rose silently poured the tea into the tea cups for the trio. The detective stood behind the Clarence House Cannibal so he could view the contents of her screen. He kicked himself for not finding the information himself. This sort of connection would normally take him less than a minute but he had been torn between playing the Concerned Boyfriend instead of the Consulting Detective as Ms Small had rightly observed.
"Here," Tonya said, indicating the screen with a manicured finger. "A Joint Select Committee between the House of Commons and the House of Lords, called Media and Communications; on the 3rd of June, they announced an inquiry into the ethical practises of the press, and are calling for oral evidence from one Charles Augustus Magnussen, a newspaper proprietor. It's scheduled for the coming week."
"So?"
Tonya clicked through to an information page concerning the Select Committee.
"Look at the list of members of this committee," she told Sherlock.
The detective narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. In amongst the baronesses and lords was the name John Garvie, the Member for Rockwell South. So this inquiry was the connection between the sleaze who had visited Rose, and the man who was her former client, Sherlock concluded. It was starting to make sense now.
But he had to make sure he had all of the data. When Rose and Tonya had relayed this evening's drama to him, he had been too emotionally distraught to correctly file away the information in his Mind Palace. Now that he knew Rose hadn't been harmed, and was dealing with the trauma in her own way, he wanted to hear it all again. This time, he would keep his own feelings in check.
"Rose," he said suddenly, jolting the young woman out of her own musings while she slowly stirred her tea, "tell me everything again. Start from the beginning and don't miss anything out."
Rose made a beeline for her bedroom. She tried to avoid looking at her sofa on the way through.
"Just changing out of this," she called back to Sherlock before closing her bedroom door gently behind her.
Pressure built up in her chest and caught in her throat, and she doubled over. She leant on the bed for support then slowly lowered herself onto it. She wouldn't cry; she just couldn't. She'd already done that in Tonya's shower and she knew Sherlock would be upset by it. She had assured him she was fine.
She heard Sherlock calling out something from the living area so she quickly stood up and opened the door a crack.
"What?"
"I don't suppose you want any more tea?" he said from the vicinity of the kitchen.
Three cups consumed in Tonya's living room, while Tonya and Sherlock plotted and schemed...
"No, thank you."
Rose shut the door again and decided she'd better dress before Sherlock concluded that a closed door was cause for alarm. And he'd be right. She didn't want him to fuss around her though. She'd had enough of that already.
Yes, her first instinct had been to flee her flat after Magnussen and his goonies had left. She should've stayed there; she should've switched off, like a good prostitute would have.
I'm fine, Sherlock. I've had clients do far worse.
Shelley the prostitute had clients do far worse, he had replied, his voice crackling a little. Rose Sulford, my... and he'd paused, while he tried to compose himself, or perhaps he had been feeling self-conscious because of Tonya Small's presence. He had been visibly upset, more than Rose had anticipated he would be. Rose...my girlfriend, doesn't have clients, he'd finished with, before Tonya had told him to focus on the case at hand, and could Rose please go and make them some tea.
Tonya was such a good friend, Rose thought in reflection.
My darling, you know we need to call Sherlock Holmes, she had said to Rose as she leant against her bathroom door while Rose was using her neighbour's shower.
Tonya had remained quite cool by comparison even though Rose had been in tears when she had shown up at the older woman's door. It was a bit telling, though, when Tonya asked what had that bastard done to her this time, before Rose could get a word out. Of course, the Clarence House Cannibal had been referring to Sherlock Holmes.
Ms Small had cursed when Rose told her that a journalist was planning to blackmail John Garvie, using the knowledge of her past relationship with the MP.
Fucking hell, Tonya had exclaimed in her polished Welsh accent. She swore as often as Sherlock Holmes did, which was a very rare occurrence indeed.
Rose removed the dressing gown she'd borrowed from Ms Small. She hadn't wanted to put her own clothing back on after her shower upstairs. She wouldn't want to wear the same outfit again; it would always remind her of today. She recalled the look of fear in Sherlock's eyes when he first laid eyes on her after entering Tonya's flat. He had quickly scanned her, his eyes growing huge and round when he noticed she was wearing an unfamiliar dressing gown and her hair was damp, fresh from the shower.
Rose shook those thoughts loose and pulled open her drawers so she could grab her pyjamas. She momentarily closed her eyes, dropping her shoulders and exhaling. It always intrigued her how much a good cry could take such a toll on her body. On the mind, of course, it was supposed to be healing.
She finished dressing just as there came a tentative knock on her bedroom door. Poor Sherlock. He must feel like he's treading on eggshells, Rose thought.
The door opened a crack and Sherlock poked his head inside.
"I'm just stepping outside for a smoke. Can I get you anything before I do?"
"Are you smoking again?" Rose asked ruefully, as if today were just an ordinary day, and she was back to scolding Sherlock for this and that. She moved across to the side of her bed and looked back at him for a response.
"Ah... just going to use your tobacco, if you don't mind," Sherlock replied carefully. "Roll my own."
Rose pulled back the covers on her bed, and said, "You can roll me one; that would be nice."
Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow. "Roll one...?"
"Not tobacco. Weed. A joint," Rose explained as she slid between the sheets. "Do you mind?"
She even gave him a sweet smile for good measure. But he would deny her nothing today, and she knew it.
Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded imperceptibly.
"And you can join me here," Rose said, patting the bed. "I don't mind if you smoke in here, too. I have to get the whole place steam-cleaned anyway."
She paused, her smile faltering as his voice echoed in her mind.
It smells like men's cologne and semen. Her sofa. Her sofa did, apparently.
Sherlock smiled agreeably, oblivious to her thoughts. "Okay. Perhaps I'll have a shower first, too." Then he blinked a couple of times, and looked away before hastily retreating.
The poor man. Now he thinks he put his foot in it by mentioning having a shower, as if he has no right, having nothing to wash away. That reminds me...
"Oh, Sherlock!"
The door opened, a little too quickly, as if Sherlock had just been on the other side of the door, contemplating their situation.
"Yes?"
"Don't use my soap."
"I don't usually. It's too harsh on my skin."
"I know. Just in case... you accidentally..."
Sherlock loved her soap. He loved inhaling deeply and smelling the coconut on her skin. She knew this; he had told her once. And she loved Sherlock snuggling into her and burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in before falling asleep. Unfortunately that creep had also smellt it. And inhaled deeply. And then he'd licked her face.
It even tastes like coconut, he'd said softly. That's how he'd spoken to her, the whole time he was in her flat—softly and gently, like a counsellor. I wonder if you taste like coconut all over? Did Mr Garvie ever find out?
Rose shivered, and pulled the sheets up higher. The door clicked shut and Sherlock was gone. Good. She had about ten minutes. She drew her knees up and hugged them. Then she dropped her head and inhaled deeply. Tears pricked her eyes. She exhaled slowly, and her breath shuddered on the way out. The tears flowed smoothly now, and Rose let her whole body respond as it wanted to. Her stomach churned, and goosebumps formed on her skin. Finally, her head swam and she felt nauseas.
Two more breaths, and then it was time to compose herself.
Her breath choked on the way out.
By the time Sherlock returned from the shower, Rose was lying on her side facing the centre of her bed. Her tears had dried up and she'd smoothed out the sheets.
"Pyjamas," Sherlock said quietly, almost apologetically, as he skirted the bed on the way to Rose's set of drawers. He held a towel around his hips, and his skin was dotted with droplets of water.
He wrestled the drawer open with his free hand and Rose rolled over to watch him. This was a familiar routine for them. Why Sherlock never took his pyjamas with him to the bathroom she never knew. And he always had trouble opening the double drawer with only one hand.
He's so quiet though, she thought. He doesn't know what to do with me. He doesn't realise what a great comfort he's been, even though he thinks he should've solved the case by now.
Sherlock had tutted a couple of times upstairs, whenever Tonya Small had made a deduction that he thought he should've made.
Magnussen thinks you were Garvie's mistress, Tonya had concluded. He has no idea you were hired as a call girl.
Rose had figured that out herself during Magnussen's 'meeting' with her. He kept calling her Garvie's lover, girlfriend, mistress. He referred to the MP as an adulterer. But she didn't know why the media magnate had come to that erroneous conclusion until Tonya had interrogated her about the last time she had seen John Garvie.
Of course. She had phoned the MP using her personal mobile phone—the one registered under the name of Rosemarie Sulford. She had dumped her sex worker phone upon leaving London for Cardiff to take up her psychology internship.
Rosemarie Sulford was a psychology graduate. She had won an internship in Cardiff but returned to London to have an affair with a married Member of Parliament.
Did you know he was also bedding one of his advisor's at the time? Magnussen had asked Rose. He'd tutted, as if Rose had been rejected by Garvie, and the poor thing didn't know the man was a serial adulterer. He even cheated on his mistresses. Didn't she want to get her own back?
Sherlock pushed a little too hard on the drawer and it closed crookedly due to his one-handedness.
"Fuck it," he muttered.
Rose's heart fell. She didn't want Sherlock to be stressed or upset about this. She tore the covers away, and sprang out of bed just as Sherlock turned around to face her. Rose wound her arms around his neck and choked out an "I'm sorry."
"Rose?"
Sherlock awkwardly banded one arm around Rose's back. He held his pyjamas in the same hand. His other hand still held the towel to his hips.
"I'm so sorry," she sobbed into Sherlock's neck. "I'm such a horrible person."
"Rose, don't."
Rose felt Sherlock shift his stance. He lightly threw his pyjamas onto the bed so he could hold her to him.
"I was so wrong," she said, croaking through tears. "I thought I was invincible."
"What?"
She was confusing the poor man with her overwhelming thoughts. Rose drew back and locked her tear-stained eyes with Sherlock's.
"When I was twenty-two."
"Um..." Sherlock blinked several times, his brow furrowed in confusion. "May I get dressed first? Before, you know, you embark on a... ah... journey of self-discovery."
Rose couldn't help but laugh, and she dropped her arms from around Sherlock's neck. He gave her a tiny smile in response, probably out of relief, she thought. She turned, and climbed back into bed, handing Sherlock his pyjamas as she did so.
Sherlock self-consciously cleared his throat, then donned his pyjamas bottoms first. He pulled his grey shirt over his head, and braved a glance a Rose. She was studying him. As he fixed his shirt around his hips, he said, "So... did you want to tell me something about when you were twenty-two?"
"That was when I decided I could trade money for sex."
Sherlock had casually placed his hands on his hips. His face was largely impassive as he remained standing by the bed. "Okay," he said.
Rose thought he looked like he wanted to bolt.
"That's all," she added, wanting to alleviate his discomfort. "You can go now."
Sherlock's face softened, and a smile grew on his face. He moved toward the bed and sat down by Rose's legs.
He reached for her hand and said, "No, it's fine. Tell me. You were invincible."
A faint smile remained on his lips, and Rose's heart fluttered in response to his thoughtful gesture.
"Its... it's a thing... with young women, I think," she began, suddenly feeling silly and self-indulgent. "Some women. Me, specifically, and some of my friends at the time—about discovering their sexuality and thinking they can control males with it."
"Oh."
"Men rule the world, supposedly, and men are obsessed with sex. So if you can control when and where and how they have sex, then you can ultimately rule them and the world."
"I see."
Sherlock's focus was unwavering, and Rose wondered what he truly thought of her in this moment.
"But I was wrong, wasn't I?" she continued anyway. "By making myself into a sexual object, I was degrading myself, and supporting a culture of violence against women. Well... you and I both know this... now."
"Yep."
Rose squeezed Sherlock's hand when she realised his smile had long disappeared, probably because she'd reminded him of his own involvement in the industry. She attempted to reassure him with a smile.
"If only I could go back and tell myself what a stupid twat I was being."
A smile grew on Sherlock's face in response to Rose's remark.
"I'm fairly intelligent," she added. "I just don't know why I couldn't see how my actions would affect my life in the future. I was such an idiot back then, and it was only six years ago."
Sherlock's gaze dropped to their hands, and he gently caressed the back of Rose's hand with his thumb before his eyes met hers again.
"You weren't the only idiot at the age of twenty-two," he said.
"You were an idiot?" she asked, raising her brows in encouragement, and feeling relieved that Sherlock had stopped responding in monosyllables.
Sherlock took a moment to study Rose's eyes, before he sighed. Keeping his expression bright, he said, "I thought I was invincible, too—that I was far too clever to become addicted to cocaine."
"And what happened?"
"I ended up in hospital, probably too many times for my brother's liking."
"And now?"
"I'm still clever, and proven to be invincible, but I'm only addicted to nicotine."
Rose laughed lightly, prompting Sherlock's smile to broaden.
But the frivolity was short-lived. Rose's expression grew serious again, and she asked Sherlock if he thought she was going to be okay.
"I'll fix it so you will be," he replied. "I'm sorry I wasn't performing to the best of my ability earlier."
"You were just fine. Perfect, in fact."
"I s'pose I got there in the end."
"Got where?" Rose asked. "You mean with the idea for Garvie?"
Sherlock had suggested that if they somehow removed Garvie from the Select Committee, then Magnussen would lose the incentive to investigate the MP any further. Rose may then be safe from further harassment.
"Yes. Wasn't that the point?"
"That was Tonya's reason for calling you, not mine. I didn't want to make a case out of it."
"So why did you want to call me? You said you were fine."
Rose's eyes suddenly watered and her bottom lip trembled. Sherlock's eyes widened, and obviously he had realised his mistake. He quickly leaned forward and enveloped Rose in his embrace. A sob escaped her, and before she knew it, great, wet, blobby tears came rolling down her cheeks. She hiccupped another sob only to have Sherlock hold her more firmly.
This was what she had needed all evening—not endless cups of tea, and two people working earnestly on her 'case,' but to be held, tightly, in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, her boyfriend.
:::
Sherlock ran a critical eye over the spliff he'd rolled for Rose. It was a perfect specimen, but he wasn't happy about Rose insisting that she still wanted to toke tonight. After their prolonged hug, Rose had wiped her tears away and had asked in a small voice if Sherlock could now roll her a joint.
"Didn't the little cautionary tale about my cocaine use mean anything to you?" he had asked.
"A cautionary tale?" Rose had repeated, almost laughing. "Sherlock, that was barely an anecdote."
Rose had left for the bathroom to freshen up and had then joined Sherlock in the kitchen. She watched him make the filter, the roach, for one end of the joint and had hummed in satisfaction at his creation. While he was finishing, she had returned to her bedroom with a jug of water, two glass tumblers, and a box of cornflakes.
Rose had made herself comfortable, sitting propped up with pillows behind her and the sheet pulled up to her waist, when Sherlock re-entered her bedroom with the joint, a lighter, and a small bowl. Sherlock held the joint to his lips while he lit one end. He inhaled deeply, plucked the joint from his lips and handed it to Rose before exhaling.
"That's... pretty good," he said on reflection.
"Didn't you roll yourself any tobacco?" Rose asked, before taking a toke herself.
Sherlock climbed into bed beside her. He replied, "I never smoke in bed. It seems wrong, somehow."
"Then toke with me." Rose held the joint aloft as she sunk a tiny bit lower between the sheets. "Come on. We never do this. It'll be fun!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the temptation hovering in the air before him. He had combined the perfect ratio of skunk from Amsterdam and Golden Virginia Tobacco. It would be remiss of him not to sample it once more.
"Fine," he acquiesced, plucking the joint from between Rose's fingers. "Just don't start giggling."
"I'll only giggle if you're particularly funny," Rose quipped.
She slid over toward Sherlock. He stretched out one arm so Rose could snuggle into his chest.
As Sherlock exhaled, he said, "Did I tell you about the time I drugged John just for fun? He missed a whole Wednesday."
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A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts about this progression into HLV territory! Please review :)
