Chapter 52 - Look At Him, Dashing About
Rose felt the mattress shift before the warm slender body of her boyfriend wrapped around her. He nuzzled her ear sending ripples of pleasure throughout her entire body.
Still heavy with sleep, she whispered wearily, "Not now, Sherlock, later. We've got all day."
The warmth disappeared as her lover returned to his side of the bed. It was only a mere seconds before Rose sank into a deep sleep again.
The second time Sherlock woke her, he was looming over her and smelled deliciously like his after-shave, as if he had showered and dressed for the day. But that couldn't be right, could it?
"I'm going..." he was saying, as Rose drifted from slumber to wakefulness, amid light kisses about her face from Sherlock's warm lips. The room was still dark, and Rose had no idea what time it was.
"Why are you going?" she asked, rolling to her back.
"I have to go."
"But it's Sunday." She lifted her head and turned to the digital clock as if the device would confirm for her the day of the week. "Isn't it?" she asked hesitatingly before lowering herself back down.
"I'll be back soon," Sherlock said, closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to her lips. "Goodbye, Rose."
Rose blinked slowly, still not comprehending, but she knew Sherlock was waiting for their goodbye ritual to commence. She could see his outline in the half light emitted through the gap in the door.
With furrowed brow, she posed the question, "Do you love me?"
"Yes," he replied, his mouth widening into a smile.
"I love you too."
Sherlock chuckled and kissed her again. Rose was too tired to respond properly before her boyfriend was away from her. She rolled to her side, too sleepy to contemplate why Sherlock was leaving so early on a Sunday morning. She was once more enveloped by sleep even before the front door clicked shut.
Sherlock hesitated on the landing outside his living room. He drew in a weary breath before opening the door. In a mere seconds, he'd already ascertained that Janine Hawkins was still in his flat, going by the bag and coat lying on the coffee table.
The air in the flat was still. As it was just on dawn and a Sunday—as Rose had quite rightly pointed out—he didn't expect Janine to be awake either. Sherlock was operating on only a few hours sleep—not an unfamiliar state in which to find himself.
Sherlock swiftly shed his coat and jacket, filled the kettle with water and switched it on. He settled into his armchair with his laptop and stared at the screen, only now beginning to analyse his actions over the last few hours.
He was just beginning to wade through the quagmire of self-disappointment with his now familiar mantra, 'It's all for a case,' when he heard his bedroom door click open. Sherlock glanced at the time in the corner of his laptop; it was now 9:12am. So Janine didn't like to sleep in as long as Rose did on a Sunday morning. Although, Magnussen's PA was in an unfamiliar place and probably felt uncomfortable and self-conscious about sleeping for too long in someone else's bed, he concluded.
"Mornin'!" the woman in question posed to Sherlock, her voice full of familiarity and self-confidence.
"Morning," Sherlock echoed back a great deal less enthusiastically and through unexpressive eyes. He noted that Janine was still wearing his shirt, the uniform of a casual lover.
He closed his laptop lid and made to uncross his legs as Janine crossed the kitchen.
"Oh, don't get up," she bid him. "Just going to put some coffee on. Would you like a cup?"
"I usually drink tea first thing in the morning," Sherlock said, gesturing to the small side table.
Janine shot the empty table a curious look before Sherlock realised that Mrs Hudson had failed to make him a morning cuppa. The absence of a tea tray reminded the detective that the landlady no longer made him his morning tea since he usually spent the weekends at Rose's. He wondered how many times the elder woman had cleared away a cold cup of tea before realising that Sherlock was no longer home at that time of the morning to consume it.
"Would you like me to make you one?" Janine asked, her face bright with amusement.
Sherlock hesitated before answering. He had already filled the kettle and turned it on. His initial response would've been 'No, thank you,' but on further contemplation, he realised that Janine would be drinking a coffee and he would have to endure her company for at least that long. He may as well have a cup of tea while he did so.
"Yes... please," he replied. "The kettle's already boiled."
She chuckled to herself and looked up at the open shelving. Retrieving two mugs and a teapot, she remarked, "Your bed is so comfortable."
"Is it," Sherlock replied tonelessly, opening his laptop lid once more.
"Did you even come to bed?" Janine asked, reaching for a cafetière from further along the kitchen counter.
"I don't need much sleep," Sherlock replied swiftly, avoiding a direct answer.
Janine held the cafetière in one hand as she faced Sherlock.
"If you were worried about me jumping you during the night, you needn't have." She turned back to the tea things and chuckled. "I sleep like a dead person. Or so I'm told."
"Dead people don't sleep."
Another laugh escaped Janine and she looked up at him again.
"You know, you say the most unpredictable things. It's really refreshing to hear."
"Commenting on your poorly worded comparison is hardly unpredictable."
Janine returned her attention back to her tea preparation while Sherlock tried in vain to concentrate on the list of emails in his inbox.
"Well, your comments are refreshing anyway," she said.
There was a moment's silence that Sherlock attempted to fill by rapidly typing out a reply to a lacklustre client.
Send further details about the evening in question, he wrote, before pressing Send.
"Okay, I can't find it," Janine murmured, staring up at the shelving before turning to Sherlock. "Have you run out of ground coffee?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow. He rarely made coffee at home. A cup of coffee was something he purchased while he navigated the streets of London, or accepted from Molly Hooper during a long session under the microscope at Bart's. On occasion, he made a pot if he needed to stay awake all night conducting research or experimenting.
"Check further along," he replied, indicating the shelves near the stovetop with a tilt of his head.
He heard Janine mutter, "That's inefficient." There was a further clattering of crockery, then Janine remarked, "I'll put it up here with the tea leaves."
Sherlock cared little about where the coffee ground packet ended up. These days he spent more time in Rose's kitchen (perhaps rearranging her things more efficiently) than he did in his. His heart began to ache for her all over again.
"How do you usually spend your Sundays?" Janine asked him, breaking into his thoughts once more.
"Days of the week mean little to me. If I'm not already on a case, I could possibly be conducting research at Bart's hospital. In fact," he said, making a point of looking at his watch, "the pathologist is expecting me this morning. I should be going soon."
The lies just kept coming. Molly Hooper was not expecting the Consulting Detective this morning. Doctor Hooper was most likely not at Bart's. In fact, Sherlock wagered that his favourite pathologist was lying curled up in bed with Tiny Tim… or Tom Thumb, or whatever her fiance's name was.
Rose wouldn't be awake until closer to eleven, but Sherlock had some shopping to do first, and he really wanted to make it to Bayswater before she stirred. There was something appealing about slipping into an already warm bed, around an already warm body. Rose's body, specifically. Let's just be clear about that.
"Well, I won't keep you long," Janine said. He could hear the tinkling of cups as she placed everything onto a tea tray.
She brought the tray into the living room and set it down beside Sherlock. It contained a tea pot, one tea cup and saucer, sugar, a small jug of milk, a coffee mug and the cafetière.
"I'll just have one cup, then I'll be out of your hair," she said as she straightened up.
"If this is the service you're going to provide, you're more than welcome to visit anytime," Sherlock replied, with false enthusiasm. Now that there was an end in sight, he could afford to be a little accommodating.
"I do this all day long," Janine responded, walking back toward the coffee table. She retrieved her bag from it and added with a smile, "I'm perfectly qualified." She hoisted her bag to her shoulder and said, "I'll just freshen up. Won't be a minute."
She disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom while Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea. Damn, she had mentioned work—a perfect opening for Sherlock to commence interrogating her.
Janine reappeared just as Sherlock was draining his cup. He had placed his laptop onto the floor beside his chair, ready to 'chat' with Janine.
"Nothing," Janine said, frowning at her phone's screen as she walked through the kitchen dressed in her clothes from the night before. "Amber," she explained."Not awake most probably. The whole world has a lie in on Sundays." Janine sank into the chair across from Sherlock, placing her bag on the floor beside her. "I'd love to know what that's like." She leaned forward in her chair, reaching over and depressing the plunger on the cafetière. "I hate answering my phone when my boss calls with anything less than an alert voice, especially on a weekend. He makes such disgusting insinuations otherwise."
Sherlock's senses piqued.
"What's he like to work for?"
Janine gave him a sheepish smile. "Whoops, my professionalism's slipping. I mustn't speak ill of my boss."
Sherlock regarded Janine for a moment while she poured the coffee into her mug.
"Then what's he like as a human being?" Sherlock asked, one corner of his mouth curving upward.
Janine matched his smile.
"A slimy bastard," she replied without hesitation. "Now don't quote me on that."
Janine leant back into the armchair, curling her fingers around her coffee mug. She crossed her legs and slowly sipped.
Sherlock picked up the teapot and began pouring himself another cup. Keeping his eyes focussed on the tea, he asked Janine in a mildly interested tone, "So… why do you staying working for him?"
When Janine didn't immediately reply, Sherlock leant back in his seat, raising his eyebrows at her as he took a sip of tea.
"Well," Janine began hesitantly.
She didn't continue with an answer, so Sherlock nonchalantly placed his teacup onto the side table.
"Because you're not there for the money," he said casually. "That's obvious."
"Oh, aren't I?"
"No," Sherlock said succinctly. "Your dress is at least four seasons old."
Janine raised an impressed brow.
"Really?"
"And you've fixed the hem a couple of times. You can only afford a small selection of good quality clothing—as your job dictates—so your take home pay isn't that great. And then there's these..." Sherlock slid forward in his seat and extended a hand toward Janine's shoe. "May I?"
Janine pointed her stockinged toes, allowing Sherlock to slide off her high heel. He held up the shoe, displaying the inner soul to Janine.
"Well-worn," he said, tilting the shoe this way and that. "Over the course of four... no, five years." He turned the shoe over. "The tip's been replaced... three times, and you're due for a fourth." Sherlock rose from his seat still clutching the shoe. "Overdue, actually. From the way you're walking," he said, grasping the heel tip and jiggling it, "this is about to come loose. You could've had a nasty fall."
"Jesus," Janine said on an exhale as Sherlock rounded his armchair.
He rummaged in the drawers behind his desk and held up a replacement heel tip. He compared it to the one attached to Janine's shoe then dropped it back into the drawer. He plucked out another and again made the comparison.
"You have a supply of high heel tips?" Janine asked.
"They make interesting impressions in mud... ah!" He found a match then turned to his living room table. Clearing a space on the corner of the table, he placed the shoe and replacement tip down, then turned to another drawer. "Except if the heel wearer was running from the crime scene. No heel tip impressions in the mud then." He retrieved a pair of pliers from the second drawer. Glancing over at Janine, he added, "And they make interesting puncture wounds, especially in the side of the head."
Janine laughed lightly then watched as Sherlock used the pliers to remove the old tip from the heel of her stiletto. It slid from its metal pin easily. He then positioned the replacement tip over the pin, pushed it in lightly then suddenly slammed the stiletto heel against the desk. Janine swore at the sound of the impact.
"Your poor table!" she exclaimed with a nervous laugh.
"Imagine that on the back of someone's head," Sherlock remarked. "And you could easily take an eye out with these. In fact someone did, just recently. It was in the papers."
"Yeah, I read about that."
He brought the shoe over to Janine and surprised her by kneeling in front of her. She dutifully pointed her toes once more as Sherlock slid her high heel back on. He could tell she wasn't breathing. Remaining where he was, Sherlock gave Janine a warm smile.
"I'll need your other heel," he said. "Otherwise they won't match."
"Oh, of course," Janine replied, extending her lower foot.
Sherlock slid off her stiletto and repeated the steps he'd performed earlier. This time Janine watched him while she silently sipped her coffee. When he returned the high heel to her foot, she gave him an embarrassed thank you.
Sherlock lingered longer than necessary by her feet and asked, "So... you keep working for the man... why?"
He gazed up at her, long enough to see the discomfort in her eyes. Sherlock stood once more, then made himself comfortable back in his armchair. He knew the conflict Janine was having. Sherlock had performed an act of kindness, of gentlemanly courtesy, and Janine felt uncomfortable with either having to lie now or be dismissive.
"It's a long story," she said resignedly. "Perhaps I can tell you over dinner sometime?"
Sherlock's mouth stretched into a smile.
"And I'll take that opportunity to introduce you to a better class of restaurant, not those dives you've been recommending recently."
Janine returned his smile, the expression behind it almost relieved, Sherlock thought.
"But not until the end of the week," she added, taking another sip of her coffee. "Tomorrow we're off to torment our poor office staff in Cardiff."
"Ah. Travelling again?"
"Yeah," responded Janine, heaving a sigh. "Makes it hard to look for a—" She paused, distracted by a message alert from her phone that was nestled in the top of her bag. "That better be Amber, and not the sleazeball."
Sherlock waited, silently sipping his tea as Janine read the message on her phone.
"Oh, she's hopeless," she said eventually. "Amber. Stayed at her sister's because it was closer. Forgot all about me." She looked up and gave Sherlock a weary smile. "I'd best be off."
When Janine reached for her bag and stood, Sherlock left his seat as well. He side-stepped away from Janine, giving her room to move as he rebuttoned his jacket.
"Well this has been lovely," Janine said. "You're very kind, Sherl."
Sherlock grimaced inwardly at the name. "That's... what friends do... don't they?"
"Is that what we are?" Janine said, quirking a challenging eyebrow.
Sherlock shrugged lightly. "What else would we be?"
Janine stepped closer—uncomfortably closer. She reached out and smoothed a hand over Sherlock's lapel while maintaining eye contact.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully, while Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm working on it."
"Then you'll have your work cut out for you."
A tiny smile spread across Janine's face before her expression became one of determination. She narrowed the gap between them, with Sherlock too slow to move his head away until the last second. The kiss that was intended for his lips brushed one corner of his mouth. She eased back, then lifted her hand to wipe traces of lipstick away with her thumb.
"I'll call you," she said softly.
Sherlock had almost frozen in place, his heart racing and his mind spinning. He nodded his head imperceptibly then looked on as Janine turned from him and headed toward the landing through the living room door.
When he heard the sound of her newly repaired heels descending the staircase, he breathed out slowly. He shook his head lightly to clear it. In the days before he'd ever laid eyes on Rosemarie Sulford, Janine's gestures would've had no effect on him. He knew it wasn't Ms Hawkins' allure that had made him react as he had done just then. These small gestures were now connected to something more, and were only ever delivered by the one person who mattered. Sherlock knew his body was reacting automatically. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything.
Perhaps it was time to employ the techniques he'd learned in the Himalayas, just in case.
Sherlock moved toward the fireplace and checked his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He rubbed at the edge of his mouth where there were still traces of Janine's lipstick.
This is ridiculous, he thought.
He strode determinedly toward the back of the flat and into the bathroom. He moistened a square of toilet paper and wiped it on his mouth until there were no traces of lipstick remaining. He scrunched up the paper and tossed it lightly to the small bin in the corner. Glancing at the receptacle to double-check he hadn't missed, he noticed a small glimmer of a foil something on the floor beside the bin. Sherlock stooped to retrieve it. He discovered that it was a contraceptive pill packet, all used except for the row of dummy pills at the end.
He narrowed his eyes in thought. Not Rose's, as she not only used a different brand, but she also hadn't been in his flat for ages. This packet wasn't there yesterday. Janine, then, he concluded, before tossing the finished product into the bin where it should've landed in the first place.
Sherlock made to leave the bathroom, then had a second thought. He swiftly retrieved the pill packet, wrapped it in toilet paper, then deposited it the bin once more. It wouldn't do to have the landlady discover that little piece of evidence…
…Nor Rose, should she ever return to Baker Street.
To Leinster Gardens then, he thought finally, exiting the bathroom, his chest swelling with that thing… what was it?
Oh, yes.
Love.
Rose had her head in the oven when she heard Sherlock entering her flat. She backed out, wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist then looked up when Sherlock strode in. Small creases appeared in his brow as he took in the scene.
Instead of posing the question, What are you doing, like most people would, he asked, "Why?"
She gave him a small smile. Of course he'd already worked out she was cleaning the oven, and given that he'd hired a cleaner for the end of this coming week, he'd be wondering why she was doing it now.
"Because I didn't think they'd clean it properly with everything else they have to do," she replied from her position on the floor, "and getting rid of the smoke residue from all of the furnishings and walls is their main priority."
"It's an end of lease type of clean, Rose. They'll be doing everything."
"I've had that type of clean before," Rose said, rising to her feet. "And they don't necessarily do it properly. There's a new property manager doing this month's inspection, and I don't know how strict they are."
She approached Sherlock and kissed his pouty lips without touching him with her rubber gloves.
"Hello," she said, smiling at his still sullen expression.
"I've bought something for you," he said, producing a largish paper bag from a pharmacy and placing it on the kitchen counter. "I thought you'd still be in bed."
"Oh, thank you! Let's see it."
"No," Sherlock said, barring Rose's view by standing between her and the counter. "Not until you've finished."
Rose chuckled lightly at his childish petulance.
"Well," she said, turning back to the oven, "I'm going to be ages." She stooped and peered into it. "This stuff's not coming off. I hardly ever use it, so I bet it's always been like this and I'm going to get the blame for it."
Sherlock brushed past Rose and bent over. He felt inside the oven and tutted.
"It's stone cold," he remarked. "How can you possibly clean it when it's like this. And look..."
Sherlock closed the oven door and pointed to a dial.
"What?" asked Rose.
"A self-cleaning function," he said, turning the dial around.
"Is it?"
"It won't do everything," Sherlock said, straightening up. "But it will give you a start. If you want to clean it when it's cold, bicarbonate of soda will work best for you."
"I... don't have that. Why would I have any?"
Sherlock tutted and sighed dramatically. To Rose's surprise, he swiftly exited the kitchen.
"Where are you going?"
From the vicinity of the front door, he called back, "To borrow some!"
Sherlock stirred his cup of tea slowly. When in the company of the Clarence House Cannibal these days, he felt flutterings of unease. On any occasion, Tonya Small could say something cutting, or make some small seemingly benign comment that would put him squarely in the camp of misogynists.
This morning however, so far all she had done was to applaud his accomplishments with Janine. It was slow work, she confirmed for him, and the likes of Janine Hawkins would never be tricked so easily if he had flirted with her from the outset.
Tonya joined Sherlock in the living room and placed a box of bicarbonate of soda onto the coffee table beside the tea tray.
"It's unopened. Darling Rosebud may keep it. She should wipe her walls down, too. I detest that odour of cannabis. I don't know how she doesn't notice it."
"Oh, she does," Sherlock replied. "She's booked a cleaning company for this Friday." Sherlock bent the truth a little. He didn't know why he wanted to avoid explaining to Ms Small that it were he who had arranged the cleaning of Rose's flat before her inspection by the tenancy manager at the end of the month.
Tonya furrowed her brow, and said, "Then why is she cleaning the oven?"
"My thoughts exactly."
Tonya shrugged and shook her head as if she knew Rose's way of thinking.
"Now, darling," she said to Sherlock. "About your dinner with Ms Hawkins this week—where have you decided?"
"I... haven't narrowed down a restaurant yet. It will be—"
"An exclusive place. One that is hard to get into."
"Yes."
"And of course you may kiss her on this occasion."
Sherlock blinked rapidly.
"Sorry, what?"
"Kiss her, darling. It would be the most opportunistic time."
Sherlock's heart began to beat erratically. This wasn't right. Tonya was misinterpreting his plans.
"Ah..." he said, at a loss for words.
Tonya leaned forward and spoke in a gentle voice. "I know what you're thinking, and it's very... now what's that word? Noble! Yes, noble, that you think you should remain faithful to our darling Rose. But this has nothing to do with infidelity."
Sherlock's chest began to expand as if the empty space was being consumed by a foam filler made for sealing cavities and gaps in walls. He imagined it would be just as painful and just as toxic if taken internally as the advice Ms Small was now giving him.
He slowly turned his head away, and stared unseeing at a painting on the wall opposite. He clenched his fingers together then flattened them against his thigh.
"Mr Holmes," Tonya was saying. She paused until Sherlock turned his attention back to her. "Charles Augustus Magnussen has information about Rose that could destroy her reputation and career. Imagine if he did so, and the one way you could have stopped him was to press a kiss onto the lips of the harlot who works for him."
Tonya leaned back into the couch with her cup of tea in hand, a satisfied glint in her eye.
Sherlock bowed his head thoughtfully and stared at the teaspoon that lay on the tea tray. Leaning back against Ms Small's sofa, he folded his arms across his chest and raised a hand to his mouth. Sherlock slowly ran the back of his thumb along his bottom lip as he considered Tonya's words.
A... kiss, he mused. Just... one... kiss...
.
A/N:
[clears throat]
Well, yes, now there we have it. Setting the scene...
Thanks to guest and Skysprite (a while ago!) I have been reminded that I've never addressed the issue of contraception. In my mind I had. All these background details are kept there, and I sometimes forget that some are more important than others and I really should add them to my story now and again. Sherlock and Rose first had unprotected sex in the shower way back in Chapter 31: I Can Tell When You're Fibbing and I had neglected then to mention that Rose was (and always has been) on the pill. They were using condoms as protection against STIs specifically. So I hope my little 'packet left on the floor of the bathroom' paragraph clears that up.
And thank you, thedragonaunt, as always :D Coffee plunger... cafetière... goodness me!
Please review, lovely people! I know it's tough reading (and writing!) but let me know you're still reading... and enjoying? Maybe? I could really use the encouragement :) Thank you to those who already take the time to comment. Much love x
