Chapter 45 - Don't Appall Me When I'm High
Sherlock toked deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs as he held the joint aloft and carefully scrutinised the specimen between narrow, foggy eyes. He exhaled and made a second attempt at the term that had just eluded him, and which had sent Rose off into another round of laughter.
"Cannonibol.. cannin.. cannann.."
Rose snorted beside him. Sherlock moistened his lips, passed the joint over to his chuckling companion, and then spoke in what he imagined to be a clear and authoritative manner.
"Tetra... hydro... cannin... canna... binol. There."
Rose silently shook, not quite able to contain herself before she had a toke. She slowly pulled herself to a sitting position, twisting so that she faced Sherlock as she exhaled.
"That was worth waiting for," she said, her eyes still moist with laughter.
"Also known as THC," he said, scowling. He plucked the joint from Rose's fingers, and held it in the air in front of them so they could examine it while he continued to explain its properties. "Well it's the active ingredient anyway... it enters the bloodstream..."
Rose raised herself up on her knees, then mounted Sherlock's lap, facing him as he took another toke.
"… causes a heightened state of euphoria," he continued as he exhaled. Then he prodded Rose in the chest while saying, "Which makes you find humour... in everything I say."
Rose burst into a fresh round of laughter. She placed her arms on either side of Sherlock's reclined head, and loomed over him. "Because what you're saying is hilarious," she said, between giggles.
She sat back again, prompting Sherlock's hands to come to rest on Rose's thighs, which he rubbed affectionately. "I'm merely detailing—"
Rose snorted out another laugh, causing Sherlock to scowl at her.
"You see, that's not even remotely funny," he said.
"The way you say it, it is."
Rose took back the joint from Sherlock and toked while Sherlock continued to study her.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you're bloody stoned, Sherlock," she said, gesturing toward him with the burning ember, "and you're desperately trying to sound normal, which makes you sound more posh than ever, like... I don't know... the Prime Minister..."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes deep in thought. "Wait," he said, "isn't the Prime Minister a woman?"
Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling as Rose collapsed on top of him, consumed with laughter. As she held the joint a little way away from their bodies, Sherlock plucked it out of her fingers.
"I think we're down to tobacco only," he remarked, eventually, once Rose's chuckling had become consumed by a coughing fit that Sherlock had to pat out of her.
"How do you know?" Rose asked, her voice slightly strained.
Sherlock took one last drag, holding the roach between thumb and forefinger. "Because I rolled it," he said. "Yes, definitely tobacco," he then added on an exhale. He placed the roach into a bowl that Rose had brought into her bedroom for exactly that purpose.
"Good," said Rose, hovering over him once more. She lowered herself until her lips were but a whisper away from Sherlock's and said, "Now we can have the most amazing sex you've ever had."
Her mouth met Sherlock's before he could reply. He responded by holding her firmly against him, and tangling his tongue with hers. Before they became too engrossed, Rose drew back so she could sit up and remove her pyjama top. "That okay with you?" she asked him.
"The most amazing sex I've ever had?"
"A thousand times better."
"Excellent," he murmured. He pulled his topless girlfriend down toward him, then rolled them both until she was pinned beneath his body. "Because I've had sex with a prostitute, and it was complete rubbish."
Sherlock attempted to stifle Rose's onset of laughter by bringing his mouth down hard on hers. She was still able to writhe beneath him though, and chuckled against his lips, so he gave up trying to wrestle with her and raised himself up on his elbows.
The laughter that had bubbled through her was forcefully expelled.
Sherlock patiently looked on as Rose alternately giggled, snorted, and guffawed; she attempted to stifle her chuckling by covering her mouth, but she still trembled and her eyes bore the tears of her laughter.
"Why are you so funny?" she said, her giggling eventually subsiding as Sherlock still loomed over her.
"I'm really not."
Rose couldn't help but grin broadly, which prompted a smile to spread across Sherlock's face.
"Well, you're one up on me," Rose said while trying to maintain a serious expression.
"What's that?"
"I've never had sex with a prostitute."
"Well that's something," Sherlock remarked. "Me having had a sexual experience that you haven't had. What can we do about that?" He pressed himself closer to Rose, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Because I'm not sure you can afford my hourly rate."
"Hourly?" Rose laughed. "That's optimistic."
Sherlock's closed-mouthed chuckle rumbled in Rose's ear as he went to press soft kisses to her neck.
Rose sighed, then whispered, "Unfortunately I'm philosophically opposed.." She exhaled deeply, as Sherlock's mouth and tongue continued to explore. "...to the... to the use of prostitutes..." A moan escaped Rose's lips, as Sherlock's attention was directed to her breasts. "... for sexual gratification."
"Male prostitute," Sherlock murmured, before his efforts had him taking to Rose's other breast.
Rose hummed in blissful satisfaction, then replied, "All prostitutes."
Sherlock ceased his ministrations. He still felt fairly lucid, but his words flowed just that tad slower. "How does male prostitution contribute to the ongoing exploitation of women by men?"
Rose glanced down at the man who was hovering around her midriff. He was looking up at her with small creases in between his brows. Rose grasped the shoulders of his t-shirt and tugged a little.
"You what?" she said, a bit put out that he'd stopped his foreplay.
Sherlock received Rose's message loud and clear, so he sat up and pulled off his shirt. He tossed it to the floor.
"Male prostitutes," he said again. Sherlock lowered himself onto his back as Rose took control. "How do they..." It was his turn to succumb to the deft oral work of his companion. He sighed before speaking again. "How do they figure in the... Christ, Rose..." She'd only managed to navigate to his nipples, but he found every sensation and pools of pleasure magnified. He breathed out slowly again, listened to Rose chuckling, then continued speaking. "Your and whatshername's little group project thing... what are you going to do about male sex workers?"
Rose sat back onto her haunches, and blew a strand of hair from her face. "What?"
"The A-sex thingy," Sherlock said, waving a hand in front of Rose's breasts for some reason.
And naturally she started giggling again.
"The ASXX?" she asked. "The one Tonya talks about—the Anti-SeXXploitation Project?"
"Yeah, that."
"What's your problem with them?"
"What are they going to do about male sex workers? They're hardly women being exploited by men. And speaking of exploited, come back here, with those..."
Rose chuckled lightly, then stretched out of the top of Sherlock. The detective slid his hands into the back of Rose's pyjama bottoms and drew her closer. He listened to her mewls of pleasure, then he flipped them over once more, grabbed the waistband of Rose's pyjamas, and removed them in one fluid motion.
"Answer the question," he said, before ducking his head.
Rose's immediate response was a stream of curses as she arched her back, demanding more, and she grasped Sherlock's hair. Her breath came in shorter gasps, music to Sherlock's ears.
Eventually, Rose was able to pant, "Sex...ual... ah... slavery."
Sherlock lifted his head. "What?"
Rose was breathing heavily and unevenly, but she looked down at Sherlock and repeated, "Sexual slavery."
"How... is that...?" He frowned, puzzled, then cast Rose's leg aside.
Sherlock pulled himself upwards, much to Rose's dissatisfaction.
"Don't fuckin' stop," she said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and directing it between her legs.
Sherlock happily obliged, moving his fingers rhythmically, replacing the task previously undertaken by his tongue.
"Sexual slavery," he murmured, before capturing Rose's breast in his mouth.
"Get rid of it," she said.
"Mmm?"
"Sex slaves. Men, women, children."
Sherlock concentrated on his task for a moment, listening intently to Rose's breathing. He was bringing her to the edge again.
Abruptly she pulled his hand away, and began pushing on his shoulders. Evidently they were destined to reach a happy ending together.
"Save them all," she said, as Sherlock fell onto his back.
She impatiently grabbed at Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, and roughly pulled them downwards.
"Abolish slavery?" Sherlock asked, after lifting his hips to accommodate Rose in removing his last item of clothing.
Rose grinned triumphantly. "Get stoned; save the world."
Sherlock chuckled lightly. "Rose, you're a genius."
"Now," she said, eyeing his erection. She rose up onto her knees and rearranged herself on top of him once more. "I think we're ready to go here."
"Oh, that," Sherlock remarked, his lips curving into a smile. "Heightened libido," he added, continuing in his quest for commentating on every aspect of the effects of cannabis as they experienced it. "I've had that for quite a while now."
"Yes," Rose sighed, before applying pressure. "Since 2011, I bet."
Sherlock rumbled out a laugh, before he rose from the bed, and sat upright, capturing his girlfriend in his arms.
The composure he had tried to maintain while he had been conversing with Rose all evening had slipped. Rose had been correct in her assessment earlier. Sherlock had been trying to avoid sounding stoned. But their physical intimacy was one time Sherlock could always relax and be himself, and would thoroughly enjoy their session while tending to his lover's every need. So on this occasion, with his senses chemically heightened, inhibitions practically non-existent, and with an over-enthusiastic partner, this sexual encounter was unequivocally the greatest he'd ever experienced.
Sherlock gulped down another full glass of water, but he could still taste the dry cereal as if it had caused a blockage in his oesophagus.
"No, that won't do," he said to the woman who was contentedly munching on Cornflakes beside him. "Don't you have anything else?"
Sherlock hastily pulled on his pyjama bottoms and left the bedroom to raid Rose's kitchen cabinets. Disappointedly, he found nothing in either the cabinets or the fridge.
"I'll order something," he called out to Rose.
Rose emerged from the bedroom five minutes later, cradling the cereal box in one arm as she dragged her quilt along behind her. She was fully dressed in her pyjamas, dressing gown, and white bunny rabbit slippers.
She deposited the quilt in front of her telly, and made herself comfortable on the floor before grabbing the remote control from the coffee table behind her. The television flickered to life, and Rose immediately pressed mute. She clicked through several channels before settling on a children's cartoon show.
Her heavy-lidded eyes stared, transfixed, at the screen. She began giggling again, in between shovelling handfuls of Cornflakes into her mouth.
Sherlock glanced over from the kitchen, where he was rolling them another joint.
"What are you laughing at?"
"This show," she replied. "It's funnier with the sound off."
Sherlock slowly shook his head, and twisted the end of the joint before he held it in the air and admired his handiwork. He made for the bedroom, with Rose catching sight of him as he went past.
"Where are you going?"
"I've left the lighter in the bedroom. Won't be a minute."
Sherlock grabbed his pyjama shirt while he was there, and drew it over his head. He could feel that his movements were slow, but fluid and smooth, not snappy and well-defined as they normally would be. His thoughts were linear and sequential, instead of multiple trees of a multitude of thoughts, all branching out and requiring the same amount of processing power. He was still clever, he thought, but he could only manage one puzzle at a time.
This would concern him if he had a case—did he have a case? Of course he had a case. Rose's case. But he found himself not overly concerned. The Garvie thing would be sorted. He and Tonya Small were on the case.
He grabbed the roach bowl from the bedside table, and brought all items back to the living room and Rose.
"Why are you down there?" he asked her, setting the bowl onto the coffee table behind her head.
"Because the sofa smells like semen," she said without turning her head from the TV.
Sherlock sighed and handed the now lit joint to Rose. Then he walked over to the couch, bent over it, and took a sniff along its length. Behind him, Rose chuckled.
"Sherlock Holmes. You have one fine arse."
Sherlock ignored her. "It doesn't smell like semen." He straightened up and turned to Rose. "And we've never had sex on your couch anyway. And before you say anything, no I haven't ejaculated on it while you were out. Magnussen is talking through his arse. The man probably had semen under his own nose from when he masturbated in the car on the way over here. Pervert."
Sherlock dropped himself onto the sofa, and stretched himself out along it.
"Come over here," he said, patting the side of the cushion. "And cuddle me like we normally do."
"No. I want to stay here."
Sherlock stared at the ceiling until he sensed something in his periphery. Rose was holding out the joint, so he accepted it, and toked a couple of times in silence. He flexed his toes, because it felt good to do so, then dragged his legs back down to the ground, sitting up simultaneously.
"Come on, Rose."
"No," she said, turning to regard the detective. "He made me sit next to him, then he licked my face."
"Well, it's not the sofa's fault."
Rose reached out for the joint, so Sherlock handed it over.
"Which side of your face did he lick?" he asked resignedly.
Rose placed a hand over her right cheek while she took a drag. Sherlock stood up and made his way over to her. Rose raised her eyebrows in alarm.
"What?"
Sherlock settled on the floor next to her, bent nearer, and brushed her cheek with his lips.
"Magic Sherlock kisses," he murmured, then planted several tiny kisses all over the side of her face in quick succession. "They ward off evil," he whispered. He cupped her face, and pressed his lips to her cheek again and again.
Rose giggled like a flirtatious schoolgirl; Sherlock's breath had tickled her. Magic Sherlock kisses, she recited in her mind.
Rose lay down upon her quilt and held out her hand, inviting Sherlock to join her on the floor. The Consulting Detective reached for the spliff, then stretched out on his side, next to Rose. He toked, blew the smoke away Rose, then settled down. Rose turned her head toward him, making their faces only inches apart.
She studied his blue-grey eyes, that were flecked with green and gold. They were as glazed and red-rimmed as she imagined hers were, but he was still able to gaze at her intently, as if she were the only person who mattered to him in the entire world. The idea warmed her to her very core.
Rose reached out her hand, and traced Sherlock's full lips. Magic Sherlock kisses, she chanted once more in her mind, and she smiled a secret smile at the thought.
When her eyes met Sherlock's once more, he reached for her. He caressed her cheek with his thumb, and said, his voice low and gravelly, "I love you, Rose."
Rose's heart swelled, and her breath caught in her throat. Tears welled unbidden in her eyes.
"You're so fucking high, Sherlock. That's not fair."
"I know," he said, a smile growing on his face. "I'm sorry."
He inched forward, so that their foreheads were touching.
"I love you, too," Rose whispered, before her vision was blurred by her blobby tears.
Sherlock reached up and wiped a few of them away with his thumb. "I know," he said. He tilted his head and pressed a soft kiss to Rose's forehead.
"I won't let anyone hurt you," he said, his voice pitched low. "Or make threats against you. They will no longer walk this earth if they think they can get away with it. I'll see to that."
Rose was taken aback by the intensity of Sherlock's promise.
"That's... that's a little psychopathic," she whispered, and she smiled, to take the sting out of her psychological assessment.
To her surprise, Sherlock's face brightened a little.
"High-functioning sociopath."
They were down to the roach once more, but Sherlock didn't want to leave their protective bubble to roll them another one just yet.
He was enjoying cuddling Rose as she sat in his lap. They had made it as far as the armchair, not quite the sofa, but Rose had the idea of draping the quilt over both their heads, so they could toke in an enclosed space, keeping the smoke within their little cavern. They could reduce the loss and preserve their high and also not pollute her flat any more than they already had.
Rose said she felt warm with her legs curled up in his lap. Sherlock had said his feet were cold, poking out underneath the quilt which wasn't quite long enough to cover him from head to toe, so Rose had squeezed her bunny rabbit slippers onto the end of his toes. They poked out at the bottom of the armchair.
"Did you love her?" Rose asked, her lips hovering over his.
He thought they could pause their conversation and snog again, like they had been doing every five minutes or so. But this was a question to which Rose looked like she really wanted the answer.
"No," he replied swiftly, then he stole a kiss from her anyway.
Rose snuggled into Sherlock's neck, content with the answer that he hadn't been in love with the first girl he'd ever snogged; the first girl who'd ever dared put her hand down the nineteen year old Sherlock Holmes's trousers, and the same girl he had considered having sex with later at the age of twenty-one. But of course he didn't get lucky there. Let's blame Mycroft for that, shall we?
How Rose had managed to get all that information out of him—plus the girl's name—in a two-minute conversation, he had no idea.
That's right. He had boasted that he hadn't been as innocent as he appeared to be the first time he had met her in the Lyceum Street brothel and she had taken his virginity. But yes, he definitely had been a virgin; he hadn't lied there. He'd merely deleted any sexual liaison, or almost-sexual liaison, he'd ever had, because it would become irrelevant and distracting for most of his adult life.
"But you liked her," Rose concluded, after spending a further minute dwelling on this mysterious girl from Sherlock's past.
"I found her slightly less irritating than the rest of the population, so, yes."
"Would you fuck her if you met her again tomorrow?"
"Yes... I mean, no. Of course not."
Rose pretended to be appalled, so Sherlock quickly distracted her with a kiss and a sneaky grope.
They both jumped when five sharp raps resonated on Rose's front door.
They froze, hidden away from the world in their makeshift dwelling, the quilt tent. Sherlock whispered in Rose's ear that it may be Magnussen and his henchmen who had come back to receive her answer. Was she ready to tell her story to the world, and exact revenge on the politician who'd rejected her?
Rose countered Sherlock's suggestion, reminding him that the media CEO hadn't wanted an answer from her. He was merely giving her options—should she ever want to sell her story—and he was also information-gathering. There wasn't to be a return visit. Sherlock had misunderstood.
Sherlock scowled at the memory of the evening in Tonya's flat earlier. It hadn't helped that Tonya had confused him with her own interpretations and opinions sprinkled throughout Rose's recount.
But the pair still remained silent when the knocks resounded again. Three this time, a little more hesitant.
Sherlock pressed a finger to Rose's lips.
"Spies," he whispered. "Intelligence gathering."
Rose's eyes widened. She had no idea into what world she now existed, since Sherlock Holmes had re-entered her life. She had initially thought that Charles Augustus Magnussen worked for Mycroft Holmes, and when she had walked in on the media sleaze seated serenely on her sofa, with Goon #1 and Goon #2 standing stifly on either side of him (Goon #3 had closed the door behind her—how kind!) she thought Sherlock's brother had finally come around to punishing her for ignoring his request never to see his little brother again.
It wasn't with relief that she discovered that her assumption was erroneous.
Three more knocks.
Rose looked to Sherlock for guidance. He shrugged but decided to bring his knees up a little, effectively making the little bunny rabbits creep backwards so they too were hidden underneath the bottom of the quilt.
Then a small inkling of a memory entered Rose's mind.
"Sherlock!" she said, pulling the quilt from both their heads.
"Rose!" Sherlock said, in a mild panic. He grabbed at the quilt and attempted to cover them both again.
"Sherlock!" Rose hissed in admonishment, reefing the quilt out of his fingers. "Didn't you order us some food?"
Sherlock looked from Rose to the door, and back to Rose again.
"Oh."
Sherlock was startled awake by a very loud thump and the sound of Rose profusely apologising.
"What?" he croaked, struggling to sit up.
"I'm so sorry. I really am. I'm on my way now."
"What?"
Sherlock looked across to the floor, where Rose sat leaning against the wall. She pulled herself to a standing position, using the wall as a leverage.
"Fuck!" she said fiercely.
"What?" Sherlock said, for the third time.
Rose dropped her hand, and Sherlock saw that she was holding her phone.
"What were you doing down there?" he asked, raking a hand through his hair in order to stimulate blood flow, or thought processes, or something.
"I fell off the bed when I answered my phone... fucking hell, Sherlock!"
"What?"
"I'm late for work," she said, rounding the bed. "We slept in, and... oh my God!" Rose stared in horror at something at the end of the bed. "Oh no, it's okay." She stooped to pick up an object from the floor.
Sherlock struggled to keep up. Everything Rose had said so far was random and kind of alarming.
"I'd thought you'd been stabbed or fucking soiled yourself," she explained.
Sherlock sat up properly, blinked and tried to focus. A brownish, reddish lumpy stain had pooled and congealed around his feet. Charming, he thought. She thought I had soiled myself.
Rose held up a takeaway food container. "Oops," she said.
Sherlock scratched his head. "Whose bright idea was it to eat Indian takeaway in bed?"
Rose fixed him with a meaningful look before she left the room.
Oh, Sherlock thought.
"Oh my God, what the fuck!"
Sherlock momentarily shut his eyes and tried to visualise the worst possible scene Rose could find out there. His deductive reasoning was practically non-existent. He slipped from the bed and stood, swaying slightly, when she came storming back in.
Pointing at the bed using the container she still held in her hand, she said with a slight tremor in her voice, "Don't worry about the rest, but could you please take the sheets off and soak them? I'm sorry, I have to go to work." She left the room again, calling out, "I was meant to be on opening the shop... I'm so fucking late!"
Sherlock heard rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. An awful lot of rummaging. He thought he'd better get out there to assess the damage.
He quickly donned his pyjamas and dressing gown as the noise continued in the kitchen. His first stop was the living area.
Not... too bad. Obviously building a little bed on the floor out of the sofa and armchair cushions was a fun idea, particularly since Rose refused to cuddle with him on the sofa in it's regular state. And the coffee table was moved aside, too. An easy fix.
Sherlock walked toward the kitchen.
Well, yes.
Rose looked up at him after she'd scooped up the contents of one of the drawers and hastily shoved them inside. She shook her head at him, then surveyed the rest of the mess, dropping her shoulders in defeat.
"Just get ready for work, Rose," Sherlock quietly bid her. "I'll get this."
"It's like the work of fucking drug addicts," she said in disgust, stepping over random items that had been upended onto the floor. "Were we that desperate?"
"Enthusiastic," Sherlock replied, fixing her with a grim smile. He stooped to pick up a potato masher that had managed to find its way across the floor of the kitchen.
They had just wanted more weed. Obviously four (five?) spliffs wasn't enough of an evening. Rose was sure she had a secret stash somewhere. What was funny was Rose holding up random objects and telling Sherlock amusing stories relating to them. Well, it was funny at the time.
And sex. A lot of sex. A heightened libido. And a much smaller recovery window. Sherlock surveyed the rooms as Rose left to get ready for work. In the bedroom, twice. Out here on our little cozy makeshift bed, including antics which may have lead us to the...
"Oh, fuck me. Really?" came Rose's voice, echoing off the tiles.
...shower.
Sherlock was once again drawn to Rose and her reaction to whatever disorder the two stoners had managed to create the night before. He entered the bathroom to find that Rose was under the shower having decided to ignore the shampoo and conditioner bottles, shower gels and moisturisers that lay on the floor in a confused heap among towels and bath mats.
The floor was cold and hard. They had to fuck somewhere comfortable after the shower.
Like two animals on heat.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
Rose spotted Sherlock when he bent down to pick up a bar of soap as she was shampooing and conditioning her hair simultaneously to save time.
"Throw that one out," she said before ducking her head underneath the spray.
Sherlock knew why; it was the coconut soap he loved so much. He drifted out of the bathroom clutching the potato masher in one hand, and his beloved soap in the other. He paused by the passageway to the bedroom, brought the soap up to his nose and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes.
Apple, pear, coconut, Rose. His dopamine chant. It would be no more.
Why did you have to lick her face, you sick cunt.
Sherlock Holmes hardly ever swore.
He dropped the soap into his dressing gown pocket, then tapped the potato masher against his thigh. Where should he begin?
Rose began to call Sherlock from the bathroom, so the decision was taken out of his hands.
"I'm just going to do my hair and makeup," she said, once he'd appeared in the bathroom doorway. "So can you please get my clothes out? You know what I wear to work; just lay them on the bed."
Sherlock nodded then turned to leave.
"No! Not the bed." Rose frowned as she ran a comb through her wet hair. "Just… I don't know. Someplace they won't get ruined. Just lay them out so I can get dressed quickly. Please."
"Right," Sherlock said. "Maybe…" He waved the potato masher in the air, vaguely gesturing toward the living area. "Out there."
"Yeah, okay, good," Rose agreed, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock's newly acquired appendage.
The detective left, with a new purpose in his stride. He knew exactly what Rose would wear. He'd witnessed her dressing and undressing many times on either side of a work day.
Sherlock lay the masher on top of the dresser, then he chose a top, undershirt, bra, skirt, stockings and knickers. He piled them all in his hands, placed the potato masher on top, then took them out to the living area. He quickly determined that draping them all over the back of the armchair was probably the safest and most easily accessible spot.
He drifted back to the bathroom.
"Tea?" he asked Rose.
She had just finished her last touches of makeup—minimal and understated, Sherlock observed—and had braided her wet hair.
"Um… thanks, but no. I'm two hours late already. Are my clothes out there?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied, following her into the living room like a personal valet. "Your hair is still wet."
"I thought I'd let it dry like this. I don't have time to do it properly."
Rose carefully laid the potato masher aside that she found on top of her underwear.
"They tried ringing me all morning, for fuck's sake," she explained as she drew on her knickers.
Sherlock spied the masher balancing precariously on the back of the armchair next to Rose's clothing, and quickly and discreetly retrieved it before it fell.
"I didn't even hear the phone," she continued, as she hooked up her bra. "Did you?"
"Um… no."
"They had to ring my manager to open up. So I just lied and said I had severe food poisoning last night and I was up all night vomiting." Rose grabbed her skirt next and stepped into it as she continued speaking. "Then by the time I managed to fall asleep it was in the early hours, I told her. But of course I'm okay now, so I said I'd be in."
"Right," Sherlock said, scratching his head with the utensil. "Why didn't you just take the whole day off?"
"Because I had all that time off last year, remember? I've used up a crapload of leave already."
Rose pulled her shirt over her head as Sherlock hummed in reluctant agreement. The dark weeks. He remembered them well.
"Your stockings," he said, waving at them with the masher.
"Oh, it's not that cold. I'll go without, thanks."
Rose looked around for her shoes while Sherlock strode over to the door and retrieved her coat. He brought it to the middle of the living area and held it out for Rose once she'd stepped into her heels.
"Oh, thank you," she said, laughing lightly. "What fantastic service." She noticed that Sherlock still held the potato masher in his hand as he fixed her coat for her. She turned around to face him. "Are you all right?"
"Not really, no."
Rose reached up and caressed his face as he gazed down at her. She noted his bloodshot eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Last night was…"
"I'm fine with all that, Rose. I wanted to be there for you. I just feel like shit, that's all. My brain feels foggy, but it will pass."
"Well, thank you." Rose planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips, lingering a little when she felt him reciprocate. When she drew back, he gave her a half-smile. "You're Sherlock Holmes without all your usual… vigour," she remarked.
Sherlock's smile broadened. "I had vigour in abundance last night."
A tiny chuckle escaped Rose. "Yeah, what was that about?" She glanced toward the temporary bed set up in front of the telly. "That was… well… it was like James Dodd on R&R leave."
"Sorry, what?"
"Jesus, sorry, bad joke. Ex-boyfriend. Army. Loads of sex."
"Oh." That James Dodd. "Of course."
"Not as sweet and romantic a tale as your lovely Miss Grace… what was her name again? Grace Elizabeth something Dunbar."
Sherlock tutted, and almost hung his head in embarrassment. "Bernadette," he muttered.
"Well, it's a beautiful name. And just a bit posh. Bet she was lovely though."
Sherlock shrugged noncommitedly. "She had her moments."
The detective shifted uncomfortably. The copious amount of sex he could live with. This information sharing about someone from his past was excruciatingly painful to revisit in the harsh light of a sober day.
"Aren't you late for work?"
Rose smiled grimly. "Yep," she sighed.
They regarded each other for a moment, twin pairs of red-rimmed eyes. Sherlock knew there were emotions and feelings jostling to be set free, if he'd just speak the words aloud as he had done last night. He couldn't though. There was some sort of barrier.
"I love you," Rose whispered.
At least she had no encumbrances.
Sherlock's gut turned and twisted. Rose was gazing at him with eyes widened by hope. All he could offer her was a lopsided smile.
After another torturous moment, she added, "Do you love me?"
Sherlock's reply was almost inaudible. "Yes." So he bowed his head and kissed Rose just so he didn't have to see the disappointment in her eyes any longer.
They broke apart, and Sherlock watched as Rose retrieved her handbag and keys in silence. At least she remembered not to break the goodbye ritual, he thought. But why couldn't she remember the correct sequence in their sentiment exchange? She had just set herself up for disappointment. It wasn't his fault.
Rose opened the front door and glanced one more time in Sherlock's direction. She was grateful that he gave her a hint of a smile just before gifting her with one of his cheeky winks. Had he not done that, she would've found the image of the Consulting Detective, standing barefoot in her living room dressed in his pyjamas holding a potato masher just a little bit depressing and enormously alarming.
.
A/N: Some of you may recognise little Miss Grace Dunbar from my stalled fic The Widow... oops, spoilers for that one :) Just my own cheeky head-canon.
