Chapter 53 – The Arse-end of the Universe
Rose rearranged herself in Sherlock's arms, happy at last to get back to their usual Sunday afternoon routine of cuddling in bed. They'd finished cleaning the appliances in the kitchen, much to Sherlock's relief. The detective had returned from Ms Small's flat in possession of a box of bicarb soda and a pensive expression.
He had disappeared into Rose's bedroom and returned wearing his pyjamas. When Rose questioned his attire, Sherlock had stated that he didn't want to clean wearing his button up shirt and work trousers. Then he proceeded to pull out the washing machine and fridge so they could clean behind them. They mixed the bicarb soda into a paste and spread it throughout the oven. Leaving the bicarbonate of soda to work its magic, they retreated to the bathroom, where Sherlock presented Rose with his present.
Rose was treated to the Consulting Detective lathering her skin with a soap containing apricot kernel oil and shea butter, scented with a lavender essential oil. Her new shampoo also contained lavender along with the essential oils of geranium and chamomile.
"All very calming and sleep-inducing," Rose remarked as Sherlock lathered the shampoo into her hair. She stood with her back to him in the shower stall and closed her eyes, soothed by his gentle, yet thorough, application.
"And not a scent that promotes licking," Sherlock had said, without any traces of humour in his remark.
Sherlock's efforts prompted Rose to return the favour using her plain, perfume-less soap, since Sherlock found the fancier soaps irritating to his skin. The mutual bathing resulted in a slow build-up of pulsing sensations between the pair, a maddening ache of longing in which they both luxuriated.
Eventually, they'd found their way to Rose's bed, where their love-making was sweet and tender, following on from the lazy explorations of foreplay in the shower. After holding Rose in his arms for all of twenty seconds post-coitus, Sherlock had said, "You're going to have to blow dry your hair if we're to stay in bed cuddling for any length of time."
Rose resignedly acquiesced, knowing that on an ordinary day, Sherlock could barely tolerate the strands of her hair tickling his chest. Cold, wet hair was definitely out of the question.
After returning from the bathroom once more, she settled into Sherlock's embrace, and the pair lay together in silence, not really sleeping. Half an hour passed before Sherlock began running his thumb along Rose's arm in earnest.
She closed her eyes against his gentle caresses. Now and again Sherlock would thread his fingers through her hair. He nuzzled in close, curling his body around hers and Rose wondered if he was ready for another round.
But the caressing continued with Sherlock alternating the tips of his fingers with the flat of his palm. He'd embrace Rose tightly, breathing in deeply along the curve of her neck. On one such gesture, Rose hunched her shoulder as Sherlock's exhale tickled her skin.
"What are you doing?" she asked finally, and laughing lightly.
Sherlock shushed her fiercely and stroked a thumb along the length of her arm again, curling his body more tightly behind her. Curious that she couldn't feel any evidence of arousal, Rose wriggled free, turning to face him. He tutted and regarded her with two creases in his brow.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm joining the party," Rose replied, smoothing her hand along Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock grasped her wrist before she could reach her intended destination.
"That's... not what I'm doing," he said.
"Okay," Rose responded. She smiled at him resignedly. "What are you doing then?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his lover.
"I'm recalibrating."
This was a new one, Rose thought. Even for Sherlock. And she'd never heard the term recalibrating as being a euphemism for anything sexual.
"Recalibrating what?"
Sherlock hesitated. His voice remained expressionless when he answered, "My love for you."
Rose didn't know how to respond even though her lips parted in readiness for a reply. But she said nothing, and studied Sherlock's eyes for further information.
Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh.
"I'm rewiring my entorhinal cortex," he explained. "An important part of the olfactory system. And to a lesser extent, I'm stimulating the mechanoreceptors in my somatosensory system. All this leads to various brain chemicals being released—the biology of love, if you like."
"Oh, I see," Rose replied in a small voice. She knew a little about external triggers in a psychological sense. This deliberate act of storing memories by Sherlock should come as no surprise. And he had once told her about his Mind Palace. Granted she was stoned at the time.
"So turn around," Sherlock bid her in a low voice, "and let me continue."
Rose silently obeyed, her thoughts still dwelling on Sherlock's initial words, wondering why they sounded odd, but so welcome.
Eventually she was able to articulate what was bugging her.
"You know, you almost said it."
Sherlock's wandering hand paused along Rose's thigh.
"Said what?"
Rose swallowed, and tried to keep her voice light and casual.
"I love you."
"No, I didn't."
Rose freed herself from Sherlock's embrace once more so she could face him.
"My love for you," she said, quoting Sherlock. "That's so close. Just change the 'my' to an 'I', and—"
"What?"
"—remove the 'for', and you've said it."
Sherlock frowned at Rose in disapproval.
Rose matched his expression, and she kept her eyes locked on his.
"So just..." She paused, drawing in a steadying breath. "...say it."
The intensity of the moment brought an uncomfortable pressure behind Rose's eyes, and she dared not blink.
"Rose," Sherlock said, his tone sounding like he was ready to negotiate with a killer who was pointing a loaded gun at him. "Don't raise your expectations. We had an agreement."
"We didn't have an agreement."
"About our exchange of sentiment. You pose the question on my behalf. Why are you trying to change it?"
"It wasn't an agreement. It just sort of evolved."
Sherlock was silent for a moment while he studied her. Rose suddenly felt a wave of guilt wash over her. This wasn't fair. Why had she put him on the spot like that?
The tension of the moment left her body and she whispered, "I'm sorry." She quickly narrowed the gap between them before her tears could betray her. She kissed Sherlock on the lips, then eased back just a little so she could add, "I know you love me." Dropping back to his chest so he could cradle her in his arm without seeing her expression, Rose added, "You don't need to say it. I'm sorry I hassled you about it."
Rose was met with silence as Sherlock curled an arm around her. His caresses had ceased. Now Rose knew he would be analysing her words, feeling inadequate as a partner once more, and it was all her fault.
"We're in a good place," she felt compelled to add. "Nothing needs to change. Don't worry about it."
"What do you mean, We're in a good place?" he asked. "Here in your flat, as opposed to mine?"
Rose twisted her body so she could gaze up at Sherlock.
"I'm not talking about our physical location."
"Then I don't understand."
Rose had to remind herself that Sherlock didn't necessarily know the ins and outs of relationships, the every day struggles, and the growth and decline of such, nor the defining language that went with it.
"I'm talking about the state of our relationship," she explained. "Where we are in terms of the beginning, middle or end, how we see and feel about each other, and whether our needs are met on both a physical and emotional level. Being in a good place means we're happy with our situation."
"Are we," Sherlock asked, with no inflexion in his question.
"Aren't we?" Rose asked, her voice rising in a mild panic and her eyes growing rounder by the second.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in response.
"I'm not easily confused, Rose. But you're measuring and assessing an abstract concept then becoming upset when I haven't thought to keep a record and chart my own observations. Was I supposed to?"
Rose couldn't help but chuckle at the seriousness of Sherlock's question.
"No, not at all. Forget I said anything."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits and said, "Just so you know, I'm going to delete everything that was spoken between us after you said, Oh, I see."
Rose laughed lightly again, then leant forward to kiss Sherlock. He held her to him for a moment longer, giving their kiss an extra special something, before Rose lay back in his arms in once more.
Despite Sherlock's best effort, he didn't completely delete the conversation that included Rose's remark, We're in a good place. He turned it over in his mind during the next day or so, feeling the weight of it, and wondering where he would find a bad place in which to exist with Rose. Had they already been there? Did this place consist of the horrible weeks where Rose wouldn't even see him?
Most probably, Sherlock thought, his gut twisting with the memory of Rose continually requesting he be more patient with her, and could he give her more time to sort herself out—more time to dwell on her own dark past. It was her bad place, and she had dragged him into it, unwilling, with no luggage and without a leave pass.
These thoughts alternated with the problem of how to kiss Janine at the end of the week without triggering all sorts of inappropriate physiological responses.
Monday through to Wednesday passed by in a fit of inactivity, with the exception of the operations of his mind. They were the equivalent of the London Underground at peak hour in terms of busyness, without the discomfort of smelly, unpleasant commuters assaulting his senses. Although the thought of locking lips with Magnussen's PA and having her tongue dart where it oughtn't came pretty close.
Here Sherlock was wedged between forming a necessary bond with Janine and possibly betraying the woman he loved. Despite Tonya Small's advice, Sherlock knew there was a line he shouldn't cross. Its precise location, though, was a bit hazy. He feared the day he'd glance behind him to find the line way back in the distance, well and truly leapt over.
At the start of the week, Rose had been busy working her day job, and coming home to her flat and finding random things to clean that she was sure the hired cleaners wouldn't do properly come Friday. This drove Sherlock up the (recently cleaned) wall, so much so, that he felt compelled to leave. He fully intended returning both nights in the early hours, but his daytime lack of physical exertion left him exhausted and he couldn't move from the comfort of his armchair by the fire. It was times like these that he wished he still had a drug habit.
Wednesday stretched and yawned before him, promising him nothing but tedium and all day in which to indulge in it. He went to Leinster Gardens and hung out in his empty house trying to figure out how to patch up the holes in the roof where the water dripped through. Then he went across the street to Rose's and waited patiently on her sofa for her to return home from work. He practised scoffing and tutting and designed clever remarks to direct at Rose should she start cleaning something. And when the clock ticked a little past seven o'clock, it suddenly dawned on him that Rose was working at the ASXX this evening, her first proper evening on the job offering counselling to prostitutes. And he had neglected to ask how last Saturday night went.
Probably fine, since she didn't mention it. Most likely super, since she hadn't curled up underneath her blankets, telling him to go away and never return.
Sherlock had a shower with the water drumming over his head when Scanlan upstairs began to masturbate to the tune of his barking dog accompanied by the unrelenting boom of the seven o'clock news turned up to full volume. At eight o'clock, Sherlock cleaned the stove top. Twice. At nine, he was flicking through one of Rose's books, a hefty tome relating the case studies of various women who had left abusive relationships for a better life. He became quite attached to a phrase he read several times over, that the women found their new post-abuse lives "very affirming."
Very affirming, he mouthed to the room at large, then he threw the book onto the coffee table and exhaled loudly. He laced his fingers together and stared up at the ceiling. Was it his imagination or was there a definite grey hue covering the area above the sofa? Should he try cleaning it? Was it marijuana residue?
While Sherlock was imagining how he could apply a coating of bicarb to the ceiling, he promptly fell asleep. He was startled awake by a single thought: Cleaning the flat was very affirming, and it put them in a good place. Then he mentally shook himself, waking more completely and he scoffed at such an idiotic notion.
Sherlock checked his watch; it was a well after midnight. The back of his neck prickled with unease. Rose was supposed to finish at eleven. Where was she?
And where's my phone? Through beady eyes Sherlock spied his jacket draped over an armchair across from him. So near and yet so far. And he didn't even have another phone on hand with which he could ring someone to come fetch it for him. Now that was always an amusing past-time, the number of times he had been able to pull that stunt on John Watson.
But John wasn't here now, and John wasn't contactable, not now… not… ever… ?
You know it won't alter anything, right, me and Mary, getting married? We'll still be doing all this, John had said to him while they sat on a park bench across from Wellington Barracks where Private Bainbridge was slowly bleeding on the floor of the shower stall.
Really? Sherlock thought darkly. Where are you now, Doctor. It wasn't your relationship that changed everything. It was mine. And it wasn't my narrow, misguided, intolerant attitude toward it; it was yours.
Sherlock sighed as he plodded over to his jacket. He wearily retrieved his phone then sank into the nearby armchair. He dialled Rose's number and ran an impatient hand through his curls while it rang.
"Hel-lo!" Rose said, her tone indicating that she knew Sherlock was the caller.
Sherlock's heart sank. It was now so obvious where she was and what she was doing. Any questions Sherlock wanted to direct to her—Where are you, What are you doing, Are you coming home—now seemed unnecessary by the sound of that greeting alone. She was at her friend's place, toking, and she wouldn't return home because she didn't like to travel on public transport while high.
So all Sherlock could say was, "I'm at your flat."
There was silence, during which Sherlock assumed Rose was having a toke and absorbing his words.
"Oh… Sherlock," she appeared to mourn.
Sherlock dropped his head, propping it up with one hand as he leant on his knees.
"Are you... all right?" he asked.
Rose seemed to exhale deeply. He heard her say, "Oh, sorry, here," to somebody else, her friend probably, as she passed them the joint she'd most likely been holding.
"It was work, Sherlock," she said slowly. "I'm fine... really."
Then why didn't you come home?
"There was..." she began again when Sherlock didn't reply, "…a woman, she worked on the streets..."
Sherlock sighed heavily.
"She had a baby," Rose continued, slowly, breathily. Sherlock concluded that she was now lying on her back as she spoke to him. "The baby was born addicted to heroin."
"Rose."
"What's the world going to be like for that little fella?"
"Rose."
"He was taken... into care, of course."
Sherlock sighed again and tugged at the roots of his hair, leaving his hand there.
"Rose."
There was silence from Rose and muffled movement, then he heard her say, "No, it's only Sherlock."
"Rose?"
"I'm still here."
"Would you like me to come and get you?" Sherlock asked finally, wearily.
Sherlock heard muffled voices around Rose as she continued to breath lightly into the phone.
"Can you come and get me?" she asked in a small voice, as if the idea were her own.
"Yes, of course I can. What's the address?"
Sherlock pushed through the wrought iron gates and strode across the litter-strewn entranceway to the front door of the old abandoned college in Canning Town. Silently fuming that the agitated cabbie had refused to wait for him, he used his fist to bang on the door that greeted him with, Private Property, Keep Out!
He waited, straining to hear any movement inside. It was a fairly large building with high ceilings, he deduced, and therefore the sound of him banging on the door would resonate throughout. Whether or not stoners and junkies would choose to answer the door was another matter entirely. Sherlock recalled hiding underneath a quilt while he and Rose sat in her armchair on the night they'd toked together. They'd been initially too paranoid to answer the door when the food he'd ordered earlier that evening had arrived and the courier had knocked on Rose's door. He mentally rolled his eyes at the memory.
Sherlock pounded on the door once more, then decided to ring Rose to let her know he was here.
Before the number began dialling, the door was opened a crack.
"Go away," a male voice said.
"I'm here for Rose," Sherlock responded calmly, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket.
"Oh," the voice said. And the figure opened the door wider. "That you, Shezza?"
Sherlock inwardly groaned. The more he had to interact with ordinary people, the more frequently he'd been affixed with stupid nicknames. Sherl. Shezza.
"Is Rose still here?" he asked, ignoring the young man's question.
"Oh. Yeah. You can come in."
Sherlock strode into the darkened entranceway. He'd been in locations much like this one before. But the detective-genius was seeing this place through fresh eyes, and he could imagine his brother's first impressions when he had found Sherlock in a crack den all those years ago. Did Sherlock really not care about his surrounding environment at the time? Anything for that desired high. And away from the prying eyes of his big brother, no doubt.
But he was here for Rose, and Rose was nowhere near the kind of depths of despair in which the young Sherlock Holmes had found himself during a summer of a lost youth. Or had it been winter? Perhaps it'd been an entire year. Sherlock couldn't really recall.
The young man, Rose's friend—Sherlock had forgotten his name once again—accelerated toward the rear of the building, calling back, "Sorry. Gotta check me stuff. Rosie's upstairs."
Sherlock watched the stoner shuffling along as fast as his high could take him. Then he glanced upwards in mild disbelief. Sherlock had to remind himself that Rose was at her friend's place, getting high because her own supply had been depleted, thanks, in part, to Sherlock. She wasn't living rough, and she probably didn't want to pollute her flat anymore than it already was. Still... here, though. It didn't fit with the woman he knew and loved. As he ascended the staircase, he wondered how long Rose had been friends with this young man.
At the top of the stairs, he found what may have once been a lecture hall, which was now a cavern of peeling paint, half-shuttered windows clutching desperately on to make-shift tattered curtains, with the floor littered with the debris of both the forgotten human and the non-living kind. Half a dozen or more mattresses lined the walls, while an odd assortment of mismatched chairs and tables formed a new-age art installation in the middle. Candles illuminated the space here and there, throwing ghoulish shadows of furniture and huddled over, drug-infused occupants onto the marbled walls.
"Rose," Sherlock called softly, in case one of these immobile lumps of secondhand clothing belonged to his girlfriend. When nobody claimed ownership of the name, Sherlock, his heart-rate beginning to accelerate, turned and swiftly descended the staircase once more.
He made a beeline for the room at the rear of the ground floor into which he'd seen Rose's friend and sometime supplier of weed disappear.
Sherlock entered what he recognised as a large kitchen, probably for the catering students who had long since graduated. The young man stood at one of the counters, in front of him an assortment of beakers and flasks. In one glance, the Consulting Detective had taken in the empty packets of cold and flu medication, a gas cylinder, and coffee filters and strips of paper that he associated with testing pH levels of various substances.
Sherlock cleared his throat and picked up a packet that had fallen onto the floor.
"Pseudoephedrine," he read, startling the young man in the process. "It's missing its prescription sticker. Interesting."
"Tha... tha's not mine," the stoner stammered.
Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly and tossed the packet onto the counter.
"Rose isn't upstairs," he said.
"In't she?"
"Unless I've mistaken her for an unresponsive junkie, no, she isn't."
"Oh!" the young man exclaimed, his eyes widening. "She's on the second floor. She weren't with that lot. She's in my room."
Sherlock exhaled a tiny breath in relief. He made to leave, then turned and said, "You're going to have to open a window at some stage."
Sherlock climbed the two flights of stairs, retrieving a torch from his coat as he did so. He strode the length of a corridor, directing his beam of light through open door after open door. He finally found one that was shut. He softly knocked and called Rose's name while still nursing an uneasy feeling. He knocked again upon receiving no response, then jiggled the door handle. It was locked.
Sherlock stood back and to one side when he heard the shuffling clank of a bolt being pulled back. The door opened and before he could say anything, Rose snorted out a laugh.
"I thought it was Billy," she said.
"Come on, get your things," Sherlock said as gently and patiently as he could manage. "So we can go."
"Oh," Rose replied, as if the idea was new to her. "Here, hold this." She handed Sherlock a padlock with a key in it, then disappeared inside the tiny room.
Sherlock decided to join Rose inside the semi-dark room that was lit with a handful of candles arranged in different spots on the floor, rather than remain in the corridor with his torch and a padlock. Rose was taking an extraordinary amount of time. He found her struggling to put on her boots as she sat on a mattress on the floor. The contents of her bag had been upended on the mattress beside her.
Sherlock knelt down and began scooping the various objects back into Rose's bag.
"Are you all right?" he asked Rose.
"I was looking for my lighter before," she said, indicating the bag. Then she commenced giggling again as she still struggled with her boot. "Billy said…" There was more laughter, which drowned out Sherlock's huff of impatience. "He said I should light it using a candle."
It, meaning her joint, Sherlock concluded. Rose still thought her story was hilarious and glancing at Sherlock's unimpressed visage caused her to laugh even harder. She rocked backwards onto the mattress and gave up putting on her boots entirely. Sherlock finished with Rose's bag, then commenced working on tidying up Rose herself. While still kneeling beside the mattress, Sherlock lifted Rose's leg and tugged the boot on properly. Rose stopped giggling and eyed Sherlock in amused interest. He dropped that leg, and did the same with her other boot.
With her feet firmly planted on the floor, Rose inelegantly pulled herself to a sitting position. She grasped Sherlock's coat lapels and said, through slitted eyes, "Isn't this romantic?"
"No."
To Rose's credit, Sherlock thought, there was a certain charm about the room, with the warm glow of the candlelight, the still and quiet air, and the now close proximity of their bodies. But there was the stale stench of male sweat on the bedsheets and crumpled clothing scattered about, mingled with the sweet aroma of marijuana that hung thickly in the air. Couldn't she smell it?
"Let's go," Sherlock bid her, rising and pulling her up with him.
Rose snaked her hands around Sherlock's neck and embraced him tightly, sighing as she did so.
"Thank you for coming to get me," she said, her voice muffled against his coat.
"I couldn't leave you here," he said, rubbing her back half-heartedly. He just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He knew that Rose was existing in a world thickened by cannabis. Her sluggish movements came with the territory.
"Come on, then," he said, moving out of her embrace. He looked about the room and said, "Just your bag? Did you have a coat?" Sherlock stooped to retrieve Rose's bag from the bed as Rose glanced about her in bewilderment. Sherlock spied a familiar-looking coat by the door. "This yours?" he asked, bending over to grab it.
"Mm, yes," Rose replied, but she still stood in the centre of the room, staring forlornly at the door. "Oh no," she said, worry lines etching into her brow. "I've lost the padlock."
"You handed it to me," Sherlock said, exhaling loudly.
It took another couple of minutes to leave the room, with Rose trying not very successfully, and giggling with every attempt, to blow out the candles, except one—the one she had to take to Billy so he could use it when he retired for the night.
She instructed Sherlock to use the padlock to lock the room from the outside, and to bring the key with them to hand to Billy before they left.
They found Billy where Sherlock had left him earlier—in the makeshift kitchen.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock said as they entered the room. He strode over to a window, lifted the sash and slid the window upwards a little. "You need to keep this room well ventilated," he told a bewildered Billy.
"There's an exhaust fan," Billy replied, pointing to a wall on which sat a silent unit.
Sherlock grabbed an old chair, placed it against the kitchen counter and stepped up onto it so he could examine the unit properly. Below him, Rose began giggling, trying desperately to remind Sherlock about something. He ignored her, keeping his attention on the problem before him. Eventually he concluded that the switch to turn on the exhaust fan wasn't where Billy thought it was. He'd been turning on something that wasn't even wired in.
As they left, Sherlock handed Billy the key to the padlock upstairs. Rose was still intermittently chuckling about something.
Walking to the door at a speed compatible with Rose's current state, Sherlock said, "I don't want to know what you're laughing about, but do you think you could keep it contained from now on?"
Rose stopped them in front of the entrance door before Sherlock could open it. Her eyes were wide and glistening with unshed tears.
What now? he thought in exasperation.
"Don't you remember?" Rose asked.
"What?"
"You stepping up onto the bed in Lyceum Street, in the brothel. You were only in your underwear and you wanted to know why the heating outlet wasn't working above the bed. When you stepped up onto the chair in the kitchen, that's what it reminded me of—you checking out the heating almost naked."
"Yes, okay, fine. I don't really remember that, but if you say so."
Sherlock reached for the door knob when Rose said, "Well, I remember it."
"That's good, Rose—"
"Because that was the first time I got the impression you cared about me. A little. You wrapped your shirt around me so I wouldn't be cold. Don't you remember that?"
Sherlock breathed out slowly. Now was the time to take things at Rose's speed. He reached for her and gently rubbed her arms.
"I was paying you money to have sex with me," he said carefully. "I don't think I really cared about you as much as you thought I did." When Rose's expression began to fall, Sherlock added, "But I care about you now, and that's all that matters."
Rose studied his eyes, before saying, "And you love me, now. Don't you?"
Her imploring gaze prompted a smile to grow on Sherlock's face.
"Yes. Yes, I do," he replied.
"And I love you, too."
Sherlock dipped his head and lightly brushed his lips against Rose's. He could feel her sigh against him. He straightened up and held out his hand to Rose as he tugged on the door.
"So let's go home," he said with a tiny smile, leading them outside.
Hand in hand they exited the Canning Town drug den in the early hours of the morning, with Sherlock hoping they'd never have to return.
.
