A/N: My apologies! I keep avoiding writing these chapters because trying to envisage scenarios where Janine and Sherlock can become more intimate in so short a period results in me creating contrived and cliched situations. I'm finding it extremely annoying, and my creative muse is in hiding because she rejects this pairing. I apologise for my lack of cleverness for a whole month's worth of missing scenes.
I have the end game in sight but these finer details are proving to be a challenge. ):
So sorry if you're expecting more from me! And, no I'm not fishing for inspirational ideas. I'm happy to thrash around on my own. I'm stubborn like that :P
Chapter 50 - Going into Battle... I Need the Right Armour
Sherlock had successfully dismissed Rose from his mind during dinner with Janine, but now that he was back in Leinster Gardens, his chest ached at the thought of his faux-flirtation with Magnussen's PA. Rose's absence from her flat produced an extra worry that weighed heavily on his mind. It was almost 10pm. Where was she?
Her last message to him, earlier in the evening, told him that she would be home for dinner after having drinks with her co-workers. But then he had sent that stupid message about not knowing how his evening with Janine would pan out. Nothing sexual there, but he realised he had implied such a thing in his vague response. Idiot!
Rose hadn't texted him again.
Unfamiliar feelings took up residence in Sherlock's mind and heart. Concern? Guilt? Was he worried about what Rose was up to? He'd never been overly concerned before. Sherlock and Rose usually co-existed around one another, ending up at the same place (Rose's flat) at the same time on most occasions. If Rose wasn't at home when he arrived, even if it was long past the time she was due home from work, Sherlock had never concerned himself with her whereabouts. She would turn up eventually. And on previous occasions when Rose used to visit Baker Street, some nights she would make herself at home with no sign of Sherlock until the wee hours. It hadn't been an issue for her either.
This arrangement had worked perfectly for them, even though Sherlock knew that most conventional couples didn't operate this way. He could see it in their hurried gait on their way home from work, the frequency of checking their watches when they were out drinking at a pub with their friends, the way they cut off conversations and disengaged themselves when the hour grew late.
But he and Rose weren't a conventional couple. Should they adopt these practices so they could take their relationship to the next level? Was this what commitment entailed? Is this why Mary Watson knew at each moment in time, precisely where her husband was? Was Sherlock an inferior partner because he didn't know where Rose was, and he very rarely communicated his whereabouts throughout the day to her?
Sherlock stood in the middle of Rose's living room, still clad in his long, grey coat, and drew his phone out of his pocket. Should he text her and ask her where she was and when was she coming home?
This gesture of neediness didn't sit right with Sherlock, but he began pacing, phone in hand, mentally debating the merits and disadvantages of this mutual checkpointing. As his thoughts grew more tangled, the distance he paced before he about-faced grew shorter, until he stood once more in the centre of the room and raked an irate hand through his hair.
Finally he exhaled and briefly closed his eyes.
A cup of tea, he thought, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Tea, pyjamas, watch telly on the sofa, then go to bed. And during one of those actions, Rose would materialise. Of this he was sure.
Sherlock was suddenly awake at the sound of the deadbolts at the front door unlocking. The single beam of light through the curtains told Sherlock all he needed to know. It was morning—about 7:10 am, by his estimation. He immediately sat upright, turned and dropped his feet to the floor.
"Rose?" he called as he hastened out of the bedroom.
"Oh. Hello," she said as Sherlock entered the living area clad only in his grey pyjamas.
Rose stood over by the door, looking worse for wear, slowly removing her jacket. Sherlock's heart stuttered in response to the brief smile she gave him.
"Where..." Sherlock began, his voice strangled by the ropes of guilt he'd twisted about himself for having dinner with Janine last night. He cleared his throat and began again. "Where have you been?"
The words sounded odd coming out of his mouth. And though he'd tried to keep his tone light and unaffected, he could detect the quiet desperation in his own voice. He hoped Rose didn't pick up on it.
"Billy's," Rose replied. She walked toward Sherlock, dumping her bag onto an armchair. "I feel like crap," she said, reaching out and briefly rubbing his arm as she passed him.
This small gesture, not like their usual way of greeting, caused a small tear in Sherlock's heart.
"Billy's?" he asked, even though Rose's appearance told him what she'd been up to. "Looks like you've had a massive toking session," he added before thinking to catch himself.
He heard Rose chuckle, but she didn't pause in her stride.
"You're right there," she said. "I need a shower. I don't start work until eleven."
Sherlock followed Rose into the bathroom. She glanced up at him as she began unbuttoning her jeans.
"Why didn't you toke at home?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms in front of him in what he hoped looked like a relaxed and uncaring manner.
"I ran out, remember?" she answered, her glassy eyes and tiny smile reminding Sherlock of the evening they got stoned together. "And... Billy said a lot of people had been staying on lately, so I couldn't ask him to come here with a fresh supply on a Friday night when people relied on him."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the distinctive scent of marijuana residue wafted from Rose's clothes as she dropped each item on the floor. He didn't quite understand what Rose was talking about and why people were relying on Billy.
"So... why didn't you... come home... afterwards?"
"I don't like to take public transport when I'm high." Rose turned her back on Sherlock as she fiddled with the clasps on her bra. "Billy usually let's me stay in his room, where it's a bit more private. He sleeps on one of the sofas downstairs. Can you put the kettle on? I won't be long."
It seemed Sherlock had been dismissed. He silently left the bathroom and heard the door click shut behind him.
His roiling insides reminded him yet again that he had something to feel guilty about. His cheeks burned when he recalled that Janine had kissed him there. Twice. Once when they had parted ways outside the pub, and the second time when they had left the restaurant.
I'll see you tomorrow, Janine had whispered to him, in close enough proximity that she had to steady herself by lightly touching a hand to his chest before delivering a kiss that lingered longer than necessary. He had rapidly blinked, his discomfort not at all contrived that time.
He'd been kissed on the cheek before, by women, so why the over-reaction?
But, Tomorrow. That was today. Sherlock had organised to meet Janine in a Kensington and Chelsea coffee shop that afternoon, so they could pretend they were on a date. Sherlock had lied to Janine, telling her he had to track someone for a case, and if she didn't have anything on, would she like to accompany him so he didn't look suspicious hovering in the area by himself? He would usually take John, he had hastily added, and had then averted his eyes in an effort to appear quietly contemplative over the friend that had seemingly abandoned him.
Janine had already confided in Sherlock over dinner that her boss was returning to the continent for the weekend and she wasn't needed. It was a rare opportunity for her to have the entire weekend free.
Sherlock thought he should latch on to any remark about Magnussen and raise questions about the man.
"And is it a rare opportunity that he doesn't need you when he travels?" Sherlock had asked.
"He's attending personal business," Janine had replied. "I'm just glad to get a free moment."
Sherlock had ventured to probe Janine some more. "Do you... enjoy... your work?"
"Enough to appreciate my down time," Janine had replied vaguely. "How about dessert?"
Sherlock knew not to press her any further. This was a game of chess, and that was her defensive counter-move. The Consulting Detective had a general game strategy. Endear himself to her through anecdotes about previous cases, whether real or fabricated, then let something slip: a feeling, a hope or disappointment, then snap back into his usual guarded manner. And the ratio of warm Sherlock to cold Sherlock would slowly tip in favour of warm Sherlock. He concluded that Janine Hawkins required a certain level of intimacy before sharing freely any information about Charles Augustus Magnussen.
Now how long would that take?
Sherlock filled the kettle and turned it on. He retrieved mugs from the overhead cupboard and placed teabags into them while he tried dismiss both his feelings of guilt for his evening out, and a confusing discomfort that came with the knowledge of Rose's: a night getting stoned with Billy Whatsit and Friends.
Sherlock didn't realise he'd been staring at the kettle that had long since boiled when he heard Rose leave the bathroom and enter the bedroom. He abandoned his tea making and headed toward her room.
Leaning on the doorframe and crossing his arms to continue in his efforts to appear relaxed, he said, "My evening went according to plan."
"Did it," she responded conversationally with turning around. Rose busied herself donning underwear before wrapping her dressing gown around her.
Sherlock cleared his throat, punctuating the silence before continuing with half-hearted enthusiasm.
"I think she can see the chinks in my armour."
"That's lovely," Rose remarked emotionlessly, and she patted Sherlock's arm once more on her way through. "You have a lot of chinks," she added, then chuckled, as she exited the room.
Sherlock exhaled heavily and was in two minds whether to follow Rose back out or not. He was beginning to feel like a puppy dog, trying to seek attention from an otherwise preoccupied owner. What was she preoccupied with, he wondered. Did she know? Clearly he looked guilty, even a man as skillful as he at masking his emotions. But he was in love. This was a new position for the emotionless android to find himself in. Perhaps it wasn't possible to hide anything from the one you love? And did he even want to?
Obviously he was feeling guilty for allowing Janine to kiss him without rebuffing her, because he aimed to encourage such gestures of affection.
When he heard the sound of a kitchen drawer opening and the tinkling of cutlery, he remembered he had been making tea. Upon returning to the kitchen, he found Rose pouring water into the mugs.
"I'll get that, Rose," he said, amiably.
"I'm fucking standing here doing it," Rose snapped.
Sherlock abruptly stopped, his stomach dropping a quarter of an inch. Clearly she knew everything.
I never cheat, he'd said to Janine when she challenged him to find her place of employment.
Never say never, Sherlock Holmes.
A warm kiss hovered on his cheek. A light press of a hand on his chest.
Why had his head filled with these memories just then? Sherlock didn't want Rose to see him while such thoughts floated through his mind, convinced that she'd see evidence of his guilt in his eyes alone, so he turned and headed back to her bedroom.
Rose heard the door to her room click shut and she stopped what she was doing and leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, bowing her head. Why had she been short with Sherlock? Why was she pushing him away? She knew she'd been pretty upset last night, over nothing, really. Sherlock's dumb text was not surprising. Of course he'd make a mistake like that and he wouldn't have meant anything by it. Why was she making something out of nothing?
She knew she was tired and irritable. Billy's thin mattress and the lack of adequate cooling at the old college weren't conducive to a good night's sleep. Plus she'd toked with Billy continuously, so her mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool. She thought she'd drop in after spending the evening with her work mates, and have a quick, calming joint with Billy before returning home to have dinner with Sherlock. She thought he'd text her to say his date with Janine had finished. But he hadn't contacted her again and she had stayed at Billy's, not wanting to return to an empty, lonely flat.
But then it had become so late. Billy's friends were funny, she remembered that much. The only transport available was the night bus, and she knew being stoned would make her that much more paranoid about travelling back to Bayswater alone.
Rose sighed and began dunking the teabags into the water. Should she go to Sherlock and apologise?
Her bones felt heavy and she turned around and slumped against the kitchen counter while she waited for the tea to steep. Movement along the corridor roused her from her morose thoughts, and she straightened up and made a bid for the fridge. Sherlock re-entered the kitchen as she retrieved the milk. Rose was startled to see that he was fully dressed, except for his coat which usually hung by the front door.
"I... um..." she began, as Sherlock turned from her, as if to enter the living area.
"What are you doing tonight?" Sherlock called back without looking at her. His voice was flat and unemotional.
Rose felt an uncomfortable pressure building up behind her eyes. She began pouring milk into their teas and swallowed the lump in her throat.
Forcing her response to come out light and pleasant, she replied, "I'll be visiting the red light districts."
Understandably, her answer was met with silence. She assumed Sherlock was digesting her words. He came back into the kitchen and Rose's heart sank at seeing him now wearing his coat.
"Sorry, what?" he said.
Rose turned her back on him and began removing the teabags from the cups as she expanded on her answer.
"The staff from the ASXX thought it would help with counselling if I could see the environment that some of the prostitutes had to work in. My actual counselling work starts next Wednesday night. Maybe tonight they'll take me to visit a brothel or two as well."
"But you already know—"
"But they don't know that I was a fucking whore in my former life. I'm pretending to be a normal person. I thought I'd let them read all about my life as a sex worker when it appears in the papers some day. You know—the CAM Global News editions."
"Rose," Sherlock bid her in exasperation.
She turned back to face Sherlock, her expression darkening and her heart beating dully in her chest. "I still don't know what dating Janine has got to do with John Garvie. But still..." she said, waving a teaspoon around flippantly, "you and Tonya are so fucking clever, what would I know."
She turned her back on Sherlock once more and forced back tears. So there it was. She was jealous. It was that simple.
She clenched the teaspoon but she heard nothing from Sherlock until she heard the locks slide back. Storming into the living room, she found Sherlock opening the front door.
"I'm making you tea!" she yelled at him, her sudden rage even surprising herself.
Sherlock merely blinked once, kept a stony face and replied, "I'll have one at Baker Street. I'll see you later."
When he pulled the door shut without waiting for a reply, Rose's muscles tensed and she suddenly hurled the teaspoon at the door where it bounced off the wooden frame ineffectively.
Fucking bastard!
"Well, I don't even think she's home," Janine murmured as both she and Sherlock stood on a dimly-lit street staring up at the windows of a darkened flat in Notting Hill, while their cab idled at the kerb behind them.
"Perhaps she's asleep," Sherlock suggested unconvincingly.
Beyond the glass of the front door, Sherlock could see that the entrance light had been left lit, so there was a strong possibility that Janine's friend hadn't returned home from clubbing yet.
"Look, you go," Janine said to Sherlock as she held out her phone. "I'll just keep trying her number."
"Nonsense. I'm not leaving you in the street."
Janine glanced along the road as if assessing it for safety.
"I suppose you could give me a lift to the club," she said, raising her brows in hope.
Sherlock glanced at his watch. "You'd go clubbing at this hour?"
Janine laughed lightly. "Well, yes. It's still quite early for the party people."
Sherlock stretched one corner of his mouth into a smile. "I'm obviously not a party person."
Janine chuckled again. She'd been doing that all evening—laughing at Sherlock's self-deprecating remarks, and reaching out to squeeze or pat his arm at every opportunity.
"Although," she added, looking thoughtful. "Amber may have hooked up with somebody. She might not come home at all."
"Oh," Sherlock responded, mirroring Janine's concerned expression.
"But if you drop me at the club, perhaps I could hook up, too," Janine suggested, a smile playing on her lips. "So I won't be left homeless tonight."
Sherlock furrowed his brow. Were there no limits to this woman's promiscuity? "You'd... do that?"
"Of course not, silly," she said, playfully poking him in the ribs. "I'm only messin'."
Sherlock contemplated his options. The day had definitely been going his way, in an infiltrating the enemy kind of way. On a personal level, he was in the toilet. Definitely in the toilet in regard to his relationship with his girlfriend. A deep sorrow rippled through him and he quickly dismissed the emotion as he had been doing all day.
Janine had met him for coffee. With a discreet nod of his head, he'd indicated some random person and pretended they were his target. Admittedly, they weren't completely random. Sherlock had quietly deduced that the young woman was waiting for a friend so they could go shopping together. Her shoes, handbag and the frequency of her texting told him that. This meant that Sherlock and Janine caught sight of the woman several times during the course of their 'date' and Sherlock duly made notes on his phone on the woman's movements just to keep up with the ruse.
Afternoon tea had progressed into a lazy walk along the Thames embankment, with Sherlock regaling Janine with stories on bloated corpses that had been discovered underneath the various bridges. Some of the stories had been true, while others were merely wishful thinking on Sherlock's part.
Ah. If only he were part of the criminal classes. The creative ways he could dispose of a body.
It wasn't a coincidence that they had walked within view of the CAM Global News building.
"How's the view from up there?" Sherlock asked casually.
"A lot better than the London Eye," Janine replied. "I'll show you one day. I can't take you up there after hours though."
"Perhaps I'll take you to lunch," Sherlock suggested, gifting Magnussen's PA with a charming smile. "And then you can show me."
Then he immediately changed the subject, as if the suggestion were an insignificant idea in the grand scheme of things. Sherlock had then excused himself from Janine's company, saying he had a meeting with his client to discuss the young woman he'd had under surveillance earlier. Noting Janine's look of disappointment, he made plans to take her to dinner later that evening. But he needed to see Rose first.
He'd waited at her flat in the late afternoon before he realised that she'd be on closing the entertainment store since she'd had a late start. Given that he had to travel a convoluted route in order to leave Leinster Gardens without being seen, he couldn't wait until she arrived home around 6pm. He had to meet Janine for dinner. With a heavy heart, he'd left Rose's flat. He decided to make a concerted effort after dinner with Janine to come back to Rose's.
Over dinner, Janine had told Sherlock that she was in between residences. Her old lease was up, and she considered down-sizing, and perhaps flat-sharing so she didn't have to worry about having a vacant flat for the times she had to travel for work, which was often. While she was still flat hunting, a friend had said she could stay the weekend with her. Janine was supposed to go clubbing with the friend, Amber, but had preferred to spend the evening with the dashing Sherlock Holmes instead.
The evening had become problematic when Janine realised she didn't have a key to get back into Amber's flat, and calls to her friend's phone went through to her messaging service.
"Why don't we go for a late night coffee," Sherlock suggested. "Perhaps your friend will ring back eventually."
"We could do," Janine conceded. "But not in a coffee shop. I'd really like to put my feet up, if you don't mind. So how about coffee at your place?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The night was never-ending, and he was getting tired of this banter.
He sighed first, then said, "My definition of coffee involves a kettle of boiling water, coffee grounds, and optional milk and sugar. It doesn't involve the removal of clothing and the connection of sweaty body parts. Are we clear on that?"
As expected, Janine laughed lightly. She hooked her arm through Sherlock's and said, "Understood. And I take the concept of No meaning No very seriously."
"Good," Sherlock replied, and he escorted Janine the short distance to the kerb and held the door to the taxi open for her.
Sherlock's shoulders slumped in defeat before he, too, climbed into the cab.
"Baker Street," he bid the cabbie.
Janine sighed and threw her phone down onto Sherlock's coffee table.
"Well, I've left three rude messages for her now," she said as Sherlock bent down to retrieve her coffee mug. "She'll probably throw my things out the window."
Janine reached over and rubbed at her feet, having discarded her heels earlier.
"You didn't sound that rude," Sherlock said, before straightening up and turning from the room. He was the king of rudeness, so he'd know.
"I bet she's lying naked in some guy's bed," Janine quipped. Sherlock heard her rise from the sofa, yawning and stretching. "I'm keeping you up," she called after Sherlock. "Why don't you turn in?" Sherlock could hear Janine approaching the kitchen. "I can just crash on your sofa, if that's okay," she added as she leant against the kitchen counter. "If Amber calls, I'll let myself out."
As he rinsed the coffee mugs, Sherlock turned his head toward her.
"Sounds like a good idea," he said, forcing an amiable smile to his face. An idea that would hinder his own plans to go to Leinster Gardens later. Not that he'd need to offer Janine any explanation for leaving his flat in the middle of the night. It would make it easier if he didn't have to constantly fabricate cases though. "But why don't you take the bed?" he counter-offered. "I'll sleep on the sofa." He turned his attention back to his washing up. "Seems like the decent thing to do."
"I don't want to kick you out of your bed."
Sherlock looked up at Janine once more.
"Think of it as a community service. You'll probably give my landlady a heart-attack if she discovers a woman asleep on my sofa."
Janine chuckled.
"Are you sure this isn't a ploy by you to get me into your bed?"
Sherlock placed the clean coffee mugs on the side of the sink and frowned at Janine. Walking toward her, he said, "Why would I need a ploy? You've been trying to get me into bed for the last two days. If I wanted to have sex with you, it would've happened last night. I've told you already: I'm married to my work."
Janine narrowed her eyes at the detective.
"But you're a man," she said. "And all men have needs."
Sherlock gave Janine a lop-sided smile. "And most men have a free hand to use." He winked at her then made a bid for his bedroom. "Just getting a pillow, then you can have the room," he called back.
Sherlock hadn't counted on Janine immediately following him.
"So you don't have sex... ever?" she said, surprising Sherlock both with her presence in his doorway, and her demanding tone.
He was standing by his dresser with the second drawer open, poised to retrieve his pyjamas. He sighed at the nature of her question and the faint expression of amusement on her face. He turned to the drawer and drew out his sleepwear as he replied.
"It's a question of mind over matter." He slid the drawer shut and faced Janine once more. "I keep my mind occupied, and my body rarely craves sexual release. All that matters to me is the work."
Her mouth quirked into a smile. "Seriously?"
Sherlock was almost convincing himself. This was precisely the attitude he'd had before he'd met Rose. Before he'd lost his virginity to a prostitute.
And then...
"Yes." He blinked twice.
And then fell in love with her.
"Well, then," Janine concluded, folding her arms in front of her and leaning on the doorframe. "If you're so harmless, then why can't we share the bed?"
It was Sherlock's turn smile slyly. "Who said anything about harmless? I'm rather partial to a violent, bloody murder."
Janine's grin matched Sherlock's. "I'll take my chances with a murderer."
Sherlock regarded Janine for a split second, in which time his mind had calculated all the likely problems that this scenario could bring. He was still trying to become her confidante. Is that what this is? And helping her out of a small bind seemed an easy way in.
"Fine," he said suddenly, and he stalked toward his bathroom. "But I get the side of the bed nearest the door."
Sherlock locked himself in his ensuite. All the air seemed to leave him as he physically deflated. Would he get to see Rose tonight? She hadn't called or texted him. She'd thrown something at the door as he left her flat this morning. Since when did Rose exhibit violent tendencies?
Well, there were the two occasions she'd slapped him. Once because he'd been absent for two years. And the other because he'd said something derogatory about her mental breakdown during her reflection on being a prostitute.
Perhaps he'd been kind of insensitive at the time.
Was he being insensitive now? How? By keeping her informed on his progress with Janine?
Ah.
Yes.
That could be a problem.
Perhaps he shouldn't tell her anything from now on.
Sherlock quickly showered and donned his pyjamas. When he re-entered the bedroom, he found Janine sitting on the far side of his bed, checking her phone by lamplight.
"Oh," was all he managed to say.
Janine smiled uneasily at him, ran a quick eye down his pyjamas, then asked, "Could I borrow a shirt?"
Sherlock took in the dress Janine had been wearing all day. He cleared his throat and replied, "Sure. Help yourself." He gestured vaguely toward his drawers then said, "Just going to read. Don't wait up."
Sherlock retreated to his living room with a plan in mind. He'd wait until Janine fell asleep, then quickly dress and quietly leave for Leinster Gardens.
Simple.
It wasn't that simple.
Twenty minutes later, while he had been pretending to read, Janine entered the kitchen.
"Just getting a water," she said.
Sherlock looked up from his book and stared at her, his brow furrowed. Janine filled a glass with water from the sink tap, and must've sensed Sherlock's gaze for she turned in his direction.
"I thought," Sherlock began, the creases in his brow remaining as he puzzled over her appearance. "I thought," he said again, "that you meant a t-shirt."
"Oh," Janine said, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry." She touched a hand to the shirt cuff. "I need long sleeves. I get cold. Hope you don't mind."
Sherlock shrugged lightly. "Fine," he said.
"Do you snore?"
"Sorry. What?"
"Snore. Don't worry. I'm a heavy sleeper," she said. "It won't matter if you do." When Sherlock just continued to gaze at her through narrow eyes, she added, "Well, okay. Goodnight, Sherl."
Sherlock unenthusiastically returned the sentiment then dropped his gaze back to his book. He didn't dare look up again until he was sure that Janine had disappeared into the bedroom.
Sherl.
He sighed and threw a glance toward the passageway that lead to his room. Seeing Janine Hawkins, fresh from the shower and wearing one of his work shirts, with nothing else covering her legs was a bizarre sight indeed. He had a girlfriend and had never seen Rose wearing any of his clothes, except his dressing gown on a couple of occasions.
Sherlock propped an elbow up onto the arm of his chair and rubbed his fingers against his temple. How long should he wait for?
He let another hour pass of pretending to read—he couldn't concentrate on anything—before he finally headed toward his bedroom. He paused on opening the door. Janine rolled over, facing away from him. Sherlock couldn't be sure if she was asleep. To confirm this, he'd have to listen to the rate of her breathing. And to achieve that, he'd need to get closer.
Approximately fourteen months ago, Sherlock found himself in Józsefváros, the 8th district in Budapest, lying low in a housing estate where he could only emerge in the darkness of night to retrieve food and build himself a cache of weapons by stealing from the terrorist cell who had taken residence on the floor above. After three weeks of living like that, he had survived.
So he could survive this.
Sherlock quietly closed his bedroom door and tentatively crossed the floor. He slipped, stealth-like under the cover and lay rigidly along the edge of the bed.
What a strange experience, lying in bed next to a woman who was not Rose. Sherlock stifled a yawn.
Rose.
Petite, brunette, apple, pear, coconut. Soft curves, pliant in his arms.
No, don't do that. Don't think about Rose.
Rugged river valley... the road to Shigatse... the roof of the word... high in the Himalayas... Mister Holmes, please observe the five precepts during your stay.
Rose.
Number one precept: no killing.
Dull.
Number two precept: no sexual intercourse.
Boring.
Number three precept: no intoxicants.
Rose.
Number two precept: no sexual intercouse.
Make love to me, Sherlock.
Apple, pear, coconut, Rose.
Coconut.
Sherlock shuffled closer.
Number two precept.
Coconut. Rose.
No sex.
He reached out. Not feeling the silky smooth of her skin on her arm, due to her sleeved night-dress, his fingers drifted downwards to her thigh.
Ah, yes. Coconut-scented soap. He knew he could smell it. Lathered to make her skin feel like silk beneath my fingertips.
He shuffled closer still and pressed his burgeoning erection against her as his fingers continued to caress her soft skin. Rose. His breath became shallow.
Coconut.
Throw that one out, Rose had said. He licked my face. And Sherlock had pocketed the bar of soap Rose no longer wanted to use and had stored it in his bathroom cabinet.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He was instantly awake.
