A/N: Thanks for your continual support and welcome new readers! I know these updates are coming pretty fast these days, but I have to get them out while the muse is upon me. It could abandon me at any second. Don't feel as though you have to keep up. Take your time, enjoy them (hopefully!), but most of all, let me know what you think! I really enjoy reading everyone's feedback whenever you get around to it.
x
Chapter 54 – You Can't Afford a Drug Habit
Sherlock stood stock still in his living room, his heart hammering in his chest, his head in the vice-like grip of a growing migraine. Images from last night of John Garvie flashed by in his mind. The MP's face had been the colour of beetroot as sweat dripped from his forehead. His nostrils had flared as he struggled to breathe, his mouth temporarily sealed by tape. The member for Rockwell South had involuntarily lain on the carpet of his constituency office, his hands bound behind him by cable ties, his legs immobilised by more tape, all courtesy of the Consulting Detective.
Yesterday morning had rapidly become a nightmare, Sherlock thought in reflection. It had all started with Rose waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Not Sherlock's side, her own side, really, but to her phone's alarm that she attempted to sleep through. Sherlock had nudged her, once, twice, three times, before she finally woke up in a dark mood. It wasn't his fault was it? She was the one who'd spent the night toking and who was on opening the entertainment store early but wouldn't call in sick.
She had muttered under her breath and swore once or twice, not impressed that Sherlock had let her sleep fully clothed. In his defence, he hadn't wanted to undress her when she was in such a stupid state after they'd returned from the Canning Town drug den in the early hours. She would've got the wrong idea, then insist that he have sex with her while she was stoned and he wasn't. Something about it being really amazing. After helping her remove her coat and boots, with Rose murmuring incoherently now and again, he'd let her fall asleep in the rest of her clothes.
Hanging up her coat that night, he'd found a small baggie of marijuana that she must have obtained from her stoner friend sometime during the evening. Sherlock had dutifully tossed her new stash into her underwear drawer. At the time, and with a tired brain, he was in two minds about disposing of it.
Sherlock had heard her stomping around her flat, getting ready for work while he tried in vain to keep sleeping. The kettle was slammed down into its holder, a mug wrestled out of the overhead cabinet. Then she'd reappeared in the doorway to her bedroom, insisting Sherlock at least make her tea while she showered. Somehow he was made to feel as if everything was his fault.
Twenty minutes later, she had entered the kitchen mostly dressed. Her previous bubbling over anger had reduced to a simmer, until Sherlock had remarked that she looked awful. He'd only been trying to give her the message that she may like to apply more makeup, or something. Calling him an insensitive bastard was a bit of an overreaction. Rose had disappeared into the bathroom again while Sherlock tried to make tea and pretend that this was an average morning in Leinster Gardens and that they would be laughing about this later.
It seemed that Rose was trying to make an effort too, for a moment anyway, for she returned once again (a little more makeup applied—see? Not a useless suggestion after all) and had asked, in a voice that was struggling to remain calm, "What are you doing tonight?"
"Dunno," Sherlock had casually replied with his back to her as he stirred her tea. "Might be having dinner with Janine. I can't remember if she's back tonight or Friday."
There was silence from Rose. Absolute silence. Sherlock had turned around to find she was no longer there. He realised he may have neglected to tell Rose that Janine had been texting him from Cardiff and they'd organised to have dinner. But he remembered vaguely that he had decided not to tell Rose about his plans with Janine for fear of upsetting her.
He strode into the living room to discover Rose over by the door, pulling on her coat.
"Don't you want your tea?" he asked. This was a strange déjà vu, he had thought, with the roles reversed. Sherlock could feel there was as much tension in the air as there had been the morning Rose had apparently thrown a teaspoon at the door. He looked down. Now he was the one holding the spoon.
"I'm going to be late," she muttered as she buttoned up her coat.
Sherlock strolled tentatively across the rug toward her.
"I'll see you tonight then," he said.
"What?" she snapped. Rose fixed him with a challenging glare. "Why would you? Aren't you going to end your dinner date with coffee at her place, or a romantic stroll along the embankment?"
Sherlock began to feel defensive. His chest grew tight and he clenched and unclenched the teaspoon.
"No," he said, deciding upon a logical argument. "We can't go to her place. She's in between lodgings. That's why she ended up..."
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening in realisation of his almost confession. As long as Rose didn't notice, he'd be fine.
"What?" she said, zeroing in on his guilt. "Ended up where? At your place?"
Sherlock heaved a sigh, his shoulders drooping in defeat.
"It was Saturday night, and I was barely there."
But he could see from Rose's expression that she was now calculating a few things. A few things that would not hold him in a favourable light.
"So you've already had dinner with her? On Saturday night?" she said, her face hardening. "As in the weekend just gone, when you came over here in the early hours of Sunday morning?"
It was less of a nod, more of a dropping his head and waiting for the executioner's axe to fall.
"So you spent most of the night with her, and then you left my place really early on Sunday to get back to her?" she said. Answers seemed unnecessary. Rose was getting pretty good at this deducing thing.
"Like I said, I was barely there."
Rose looked at him, as if she was seeing him in a whole new way.
"And then you bought me a present."
Sherlock shuffled uneasily. What did that have to do with anything?
Rose's voice was deadly calm when she asked, "And where did she sleep while you were over here fucking me and giving me random gifts from the pharmacy?"
Sherlock's mouth had run dry, but he was still able to answer, "In my bed."
Rose shifted closer to the door, rearranging her bag on her shoulder. She looked as if she was trying to choose her words carefully.
"And you rather chivalrously stayed on the sofa, I suppose?"
This conversation was not happening. Sherlock hadn't been prepared for this.
So, lie.
Lie, Sherlock, lie. You're a detective-genius. Lie for God's sake.
But his hesitation was rather telling, for Rose's face grew incredulous in that moment.
"Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
She moved toward the door, unable to decide what to do next.
"Rose."
Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to do next either. He didn't do anything wrong!
"We didn't do anything... I didn't do anything..."
"You just don't fucking get it, do you? You... you have no idea about relationships. You think everything you've learnt in ours is now a new-found skill you can use to manipulate people. Do you even know where to draw the line? What's it going to take?"
"Rose..."
"I .. I just don't get it. I still don't understand what this has got to do with John Garvie, and why you think this is the solution. Garvie is still on the fucking committee and Magnussen will want to exercise control over him." Her voice rose as she shook her head. "Why am I even bothering to go to work in a shitty job with a fucking shitty salary, under Gus the fucking dipshit who plays solitaire all day long, when I could be stripping at the Rendezvous a couple of nights a week for the same money? Everyone's going to think I'm a fucking whore anyway when Magnussen decides to destroy Garvie's reputation. I may as well earn a living from it."
"Rose, for God's sake..."
"He's still there, isn't he? Garvie? I don't understand..."
"Perhaps if you stopped getting stoned for a minute, maybe your addled brain would be able to process the larger picture, instead of this narrow-minded solution to just your little problem. I'm on a case for Lady Smallwood. Magnussen has a far broader reach than just one committee member. Did your marijuana-fuelled mind forget that?"
"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes. Why would I care about Lady fucking Smallwood? I'll be here getting stoned this weekend, and every weekend, if I like, and I don't want you anywhere near me or my drug-addled brain. Go have your fucking fancy dinners with Magnussen's fancy fucking secretary. Why don't you have a threesome with Lady fucking Smallwood while you're at it. I can see where your priorities lie."
Rose choked on her last statement, and turned to the door. Sherlock's head reeled and his cheeks had burned at Rose's remarks. He knew he deserved better than this. He'd done nothing wrong for fuck's sake! He had turned his back on Rose as she struggled with the deadbolt, in two minds about walking out of the room. His heart hammered in his chest as adrenalin coursed through his veins.
With a sob, Rose had bowed her head against the door. "I can't fucking do this," she all but whispered, her voice tight with emotion.
Sherlock turned around. Rose was jiggling the key in the lock ineffectually. She sniffed and stopped when Sherlock approached. He lightly tossed the teaspoon onto the sofa to free his hands. He stood beside her and reached for the keys. Rose stepped aside, giving him room to unlock the door.
Nothing was exchanged between them as he smoothly turned the key allowing the deadbolts to retract. The air bristled with unresolved tension. Sherlock opened the door, simultaneously removing the key from the lock. He didn't make eye contact with Rose as she grabbed the set of keys from him and exited the flat. He heard her sniffing again as she made for the stairwell.
Sherlock silently closed the door after her, then exhaled deeply, resting his bowed head against the wood.
He'd allowed her to leave in tears. He'd done this. He thought he was invincible, his plan foolproof, his guilt unnecessary. She saw everything differently. He'd really hurt her. Whether or not he'd actually done anything wrong, she felt betrayed. Had he forgotten about John Garvie? Should he have continued in his bid to remove Garvie from the committee? Was this a more urgent requirement than the long game of infiltration into Magnussen's empire?
Couldn't he just...
…. pause...
... for a second.
At this new thought, Sherlock had straightened up. He turned from the door, his mind honing in on the problem. Slowly crossing the rug, he had turned the problem over and examined it. He had to put aside Rose's anxiety about Janine for a moment. He had to show Rose he always had her best interests at heart.
Refocus on Garvie. Remove him. Remove the threat to Rose. That's all it would take, surely?
But... how?
Sherlock's initial surveillance and research on John Garvie, the member for Rockwell South, had revealed a hint at some underhand dealings. At the time, he knew he would have to break into the MP's constituency office in order to find any further evidence. And then Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had visited him and his plans had shifted.
Sherlock had heaved a weary sigh, suddenly feeling very, very tired, thanks to his and Rose's complicated route to return home in the early hours of the morning. The majority of their journey had been spent on a night bus, sitting apart, with Sherlock keeping an eye on Rose lest she fall into too heavy a sleep and miss their stop.
Sherlock's insides had twisted in distaste.
Rose and her toking.
Her intake of marijuana had increased considerably ever since Magnussen had paid her a visit. Obviously this whole thing was taking a toll on her. And Sherlock spending time with another woman had probably added to her already delicate state.
But it wasn't helping. Sherlock was left burdened with the whole case. He didn't quite trust himself around Tonya Small. She made him feel inadequate by provoking his feelings for Rose, then swiftly undermining him with solutions that he would've come up with himself had he not been distracted by useless emotion.
By himself, with someone to bounce ideas off—someone like John Watson—he would be able to solve the case faster. He could rely on Rose if only she didn't dumb down her intellect through flooding her brain with THC. Why couldn't she see that?
Sherlock had paced around Rose's living room, still in his pyjamas, his frustration mounting. If only his own mind hadn't been stagnating during the week with him waiting it out until he could try interrogating Janine again. He'd done nothing about Garvie, he realised this now. But his mind refused to come up with a solution, and it would continually fail him if it was flooded with guilt and sorrow and anger about Rose and her determination to spend all weekend stoned.
And her refusal to see him.
Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock had thought, raking his hands through his hair. His mind was going around in circles. He couldn't focus for a second.
Sherlock's thoughts had kept returning to Rose's decision to wipe out an entire weekend when he had work to do and needed her (lucid) company. He strode angrily and decisively into her room, and pulled open her underwear drawer. Lifting out the bag of weed, Sherlock was startled to discover the two wraps of cocaine he had purchased earlier and had forgotten about.
The props.
Props on which he was going to test for purity. Props, the purchase of which was supposed to get back to Magnussen that Sherlock Holmes was an addict and therefore no threat to him.
I think it's about time Sherlock Holmes had a relapse, don't you? Tonya's voice echoed back to him. Pretend, darling, she'd added when Sherlock had laughed derisively. I'm not suggesting you actually use the drugs you may purchase.
Sherlock cupped the wraps of coke in one hand, and let the other that was holding the bag of weed drop to his side. His focus remained on the one gram wraps. He'd paid £80 for each of them. A little more than the street coke that was cut to almost nothing, but not as pure as he'd get straight off the boat. He had been interested in testing it in a lab. Perhaps now...
Sherlock snapped out of his train of thought. What was he thinking? He hadn't ever foreseen a time where he would be near this kind of thing again. Not since he'd met John Watson anyway. And whatever had happened in Europe didn't count. Did it? Nothing from the two years he'd not been Sherlock Holmes counted. Sherlock had vowed to close his mind off to such things.
But here was a potential solution. An aid, if you will, to higher thinking—a richer focus with sharper edges. Sherlock inhaled deeply, realising he'd ceased breathing while he contemplated just how close to the edge of the precipice he was willing to stand.
Sherlock hadn't decided—couldn't decide right now—as he placed all of the drugs on top of Rose's dresser and retrieved his clothing from her wardrobe. As he silently and swiftly dressed, he eyed them critically. His and Rose's Drugs of Choice. Illegal substances: Class A and Class B. His and hers.
Sherlock had furrowed his brow at them, snatched them up, then hastily stowed them in his coat pockets as he finished dressing by the front door.
He'd make a decision back at Baker Street, back in the comfort of his own residence. Only there could he make an informed decision.
And now here he was, once again in his flat, over twenty-four hours later, having made that informed decision. Had it been for the best? What did he have to show for it?
Sherlock strode over to his living room table, and opened the file he had been perusing on and off since lunchtime... since...
Since he'd finished the last line of coke.
Say it, he told himself angrily. Say it. Think it.
You did it. Accept it.
You binged on all of it.
Sherlock's head swam again. He felt for a pulse. Erratic.
Irrational thoughts. Irritability.
Migraine.
Welcome back to the jungle, Mister Holmes. I hope it was worth it.
No. Probably not.
He looked through the file again. It was enough. It was all there. Enough to get John Garvie arrested on charges of corruption. He would just have to send this to Scotland Yard.
But he couldn't decide if it was worth it or not because he'd made the mistake of looking, of delving, of terrorising another human being for information that he really did not want to see.
Sherlock was jolted out of his thoughts about Rose and her previous occupation by the sound of swift, light high heels on the stairs.
Rose?
He wasn't ready to see her right now. He didn't know what he would say or think or do. And she would know where he'd been and who he had been speaking to just by taking one look at his pained expression. Sherlock hastily stashed Garvie's file of papers underneath another pile of papers on his table as the footsteps crossed the landing.
"Knock, knock," a voice said, accompanying the greeting with an unnecessary rap on the open door.
Sherlock turned around, his heart sinking. What was she doing here?
"You're in big trouble, Sherlock Holmes," Janine said, strolling in. "And you owe me dinner, mister. You stood me up last night."
The muscles twitched in Sherlock's face. Janine Hawkins was the last person he wanted to see right now.
"I was working," he said.
"And I," she said, stopping in front of him and folding her arms across her chest, "was sitting at a table all by myself."
Sherlock continued to stare at her. He couldn't believe the fucking self-centred gall of the woman.
"Sorry. I had a case," he intoned.
"And you couldn't call or text? I couldn't even get through. I must have messaged you half a dozen times."
"I'm unavailable when I'm working."
As if on cue, Sherlock's phone began to ring from the vicinity of the table beside his armchair.
Janine raised an eyebrow.
"So are you going to answer that one?" she challenged.
Sherlock silently crossed the room. Scooping up his phone, he noted the caller id as Rose. His heart twinged, making his migraine sharpen its grip around his head.
"Yes?" he said tentatively into the phone, as he moved toward the kitchen.
"They've taken my fucking stash! Those fucking low-lifes..."
"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously, moving even faster now toward the back to his bedroom.
"My – marijuana – Sherlock!" Rose yelled, as if he was deaf. "Your fucking cleaners!"
"Rose, calm down," he said, closing his bedroom door.
"They came this afternoon," she explained, half-crying into the phone. Sherlock couldn't believe this was actually Rose speaking. "And the bag was here yesterday morning... in my drawer."
"Rose."
"So ring them! And tell them they didn't even clean the fucking ceiling!"
"Rose. Just stop speaking for a minute."
Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples, to counter the incessant throbbing.
"It wasn't the cleaners," he added when Rose finally ceased talking and yelling. "It was me. I removed your stash."
"What?"
"I took it, yesterday morning, after you'd left for work."
"What? Are you fucking kidding me?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the images of Rose and John Garvie to go away. He suddenly felt nauseated.
"I'll bring it back," he said resignedly. "Just stop yelling."
Rose ended the call and Sherlock sank down onto his bed. He tossed his phone aside and hung his head hoping the feeling of nausea would pass.
Rose and Garvie.
It didn't.
Oh, God.
How would he set about deleting the photos from his Mind Palace? He may have destroyed the digital copies for all time, but the etchings on his memory banks were going to stay there forever.
How could she... how could she do those things?
For money, Sherlock thought in disgust. For money. It always comes back to money.
Sherlock's limbs felt like lead, but his breath came in short bursts. He couldn't tell if these sensations were due to emotional devastation or a comedown from a very low quality batch of cocaine. He knew a lot about the latter, not so much of the former.
A tap at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Sherl?"
Oh fuck me.
"Go away!" he snapped.
For a woman who supposedly took no for an answer, she certainly could not take a hint. The door opened a crack.
"Sherl, are you all right?" she asked.
"No, I'm fucking not," he rasped.
It seemed emotional devastation was a direct invitation to Magnussen's harlot to interfere. She opened the door wider and stood on the threshold.
"Do you want a sympathetic ear?"
Sherlock slowly looked up at her. Clearly the woman was of another species to the regular ones. Wasn't she put off by his blunt arseholeness?
His head throbbed, his bones ached, his nose was about to run. His real girlfriend had been photographed using a camera phone with her mouth around some parliamentarian's cock, taken from the aforementioned parliamentarian's point of view, and his fake girlfriend was offering a sympathetic ear.
Sherlock stood up. "I'm sorry about dinner," he said, most unapologetically. "I promise to make it up to you." He turned and grabbed his phone from the bed. "I was undercover, and not in any position to phone or text."
He had kept his expression neutral, but it seemed to do the trick on Janine.
"Well, I might forgive you," she said.
"I really have to go," Sherlock responded, before Janine could make any more sexual allusions to something. He really wasn't in the mood for game-playing.
He walked toward her and was relieved that she moved from the doorway, allowing him to pass.
"How about Saturday night?" she asked as she followed him through the kitchen.
On any other day, Sherlock would've smiled inwardly at the tiny sound of desperateness in her tone. He was inadvertently playing hard to get, and it was working wonders on Magnussen's PA.
"I'll call you," he said, rounding the corner into the living area. Pulling on his coat, he lightly touched a hand to his chest, feeling the contents of the internal pocket. Rose's bag of marijuana was still there. His own D.o.C though, had all been insufflated hours ago.
He felt a heavy weight on his shoulders at the thought of what he'd indulged in over the last day or so, and he subconsciously placed a hand in his trouser pocket where a torn off piece of notepaper sat. A list, should his brother ever come calling. Although this list held just one item: cocaine.
"Make yourself at home. Have a cup of tea," he said to Janine, giving her what he assumed was a warm smile.
"Thanks, but I have to get back to work," she said resignedly.
"Okay, fine," Sherlock said, and he gestured toward the door, indicating that she should precede him. "I'd share a cab with you," he said as Janine crossed the threshold in front of him, "but I'm going in the opposite direction."
"Oh, that's fine," she called back as they descended the staircase. "I'll catch the tube."
Dear Lord, she was being accommodating this afternoon, Sherlock thought. If he had his wits about him, he could've sat her down and commenced the interrogation, she was that compliant. Unfortunately, he had his torn heart to stitch back up and a relationship to piece together. Surely he had his priorities right this time.
Sherlock strode to the kerb and gave Janine a parting—and almost dismissive—wave before he turned his attention to the black cab that was further along the street. This departure was in stark contrast to the cozy kisses Janine Hawkins had been trying to deliver of late. He really was an arsehole. He hoped she could see that, because it would come as a nice surprise when he supposedly softened for her later. Sherlock's only regret was that reverting back to his usual self had come at the expense of his sobriety and his relationship.
When Sherlock entered Rose's flat, he found her huddled up on her sofa, staring at the silent but flickering images on her telly. She turned her tear-stained face toward him. He didn't know what to think. This vision of Rose, combined with her screaming at him yesterday morning and on the phone this afternoon clearly showed a woman who was descending into her own personal hell. Had he been pulled along for the ride?
She stared at him indifferently, so Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the bag of marijuana and wordlessly tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her. Part of him was curious as to what she would do with it, the other part had him unsure if he was even welcome to approach her.
Rose looked down at the bag, then up at Sherlock. Then she pointed to the ceiling above her and said, "It's fucking filthy."
Sherlock set about shedding his coat, believing it was safe to do so. His heart sank when Rose reached for the bag.
"I'll ring them," he said, turning around to hang his coat on the hook by the door.
"Don't bother," Rose said, rising from the sofa with her weed in hand.
"No, I will," he said, moving toward her. "I paid them, and they assured me they'd do a thorough clean. I'll insist they come back and finish."
"Whatever," Rose said, sighing as she headed for the kitchen.
Sherlock's heart tripped over itself. So she was going to toke here and now.
"Rose," he said, following her into the kitchen. "Can we talk first, before you… ah… use that."
Rose stopped at the kitchen counter and pulled open a drawer. Retrieving a packet of Rizla papers and the Golden Virginia tobacco, she said, "I'm going to smoke outside if you want to talk out there." She turned around to face him. "I did say I didn't want you here this weekend if you were going to ruin my sessions."
She made to turn back again before Sherlock gently reached for her, preventing her from doing so.
"No. I want to talk before you get stoned."
Rose frowned and looked up at him, then her eyes narrowed further as if she was examining him.
"My God, you look like crap, and I'm not just saying that to pay you back for your comment to me yesterday. You really do look... wasted, or something. What have you been doing?"
"That's... why I want to talk to you."
Rose studied Sherlock's eyes for a second before her face brightened in realisation.
"You did coke!" she exclaimed, almost gleefully, to Sherlock's surprise. "It wasn't just my weed you took out of my drawer. Oh, Sherlock!"
To Sherlock's bewilderment, Rose began laughing. He watched her for a moment, her eyes watering as she turned from him. Her shoulders shook as she continued laughing and leaning on the counter.
"Are you already stoned?" Sherlock asked.
Rose continued having her own private moment of mirth, her laughter rising and falling, punctuated by the odd snort or two. She took a few seconds to recompose herself before she faced him once more, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"No, I'm not," she replied. "I just..." She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't imagine you doing lines. I mean, I know you've toked with me, and you once said you used cocaine, but I just never imagined..."
Sherlock stalked away from her and spun around when he ran out of floor space.
"Aren't you angry with me?" he asked, demanded even.
Rose leant against the counter and tilted her head to one side.
"Why would I be angry with you?"
Sherlock regarded Rose for a moment. There was still a hint of amusement gracing her features.
"Because everyone..." He stalled, then waved a flippant hand toward Rose. Turning from her he paced again, and ran a hand through his hair. "Everyone always gets angry when I..."
He kept moving. He had to keep moving. He had to outrun his brain.
"You're extremely agitated," Rose remarked, her voice growing serious. "Are you still high, or are you crashing?"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks.
"I need to tell you something," he said, stalking back toward Rose.
"I thought you just did."
He stopped in front of her, his chest heaving. Visions of sex acts involving John Garvie and Rose danced in his head. He shook it lightly, briefly closing his eyes.
"Look, if you're crashing," Rose said gently, "you probably need food. And sleep. Have you eaten? You have to kickstart your digestive system. And I bet you haven't slept at all."
"Rose," Sherlock said, his voice pained as he closed the gap between them. He just wanted to hold her... or be held by her and breathe in all of the happy memories again to block out this horror.
But he didn't embrace her. He leant one arm heavily on the counter beside her as he bowed his head. Rose lifted a hand to his arm in comfort.
"I paid a visit to John Garvie last night."
The hand she was running down his arm froze in place. Sherlock met her gaze. Her eyes were wide and glazed, her lips parted. She blinked a couple of times then swallowed.
"What?" she asked unnecessarily.
Sherlock pushed off from the counter and strode away from her. He spun around then stopped, facing her with one hand lightly on his hip and the other raking his hair. His mind wasn't coping with this. He actually felt stifled in this tiny flat which appeared to be getting smaller by the second.
"I took the coke," Sherlock said, gesturing widely toward Rose's bedroom. "I went home, I set it on the table and stared at it for several hours until it grew dark." Sherlock could feel his throat constricting. He was finding it difficult to breathe, to speak. "I set my mind on a course of action," he continued, then he swallowed as if that would open his oesophagus. "And I didn't stop until this morning."
Rose had been watching him intently. She finally left the counter and walked over to him. Lightly grasping his arm she said, "Come and sit down. I'll get you something to eat."
Sherlock allowed Rose to lead him to the dining table. He pulled out a chair and sank into it. He said nothing until Rose joined him with a loaf of bread and a glass of white wine. She started lathering butter onto a slice of bread. Sherlock watched as if this was the most important slice of bread in existence.
"Eat," she said, plopping the buttie down in front of him. "Drink," she added, pushing the wine glass over.
She watched him like a prison warden looking for signs of dissension. Sherlock bit into one corner of the bread, chewed it slowly and then gulped down a third of the glass of wine. He set the glass back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I waited outside his office in Rockwell South," he continued, feeling marginally better. A warmth spread through him as the alcohol hit his stomach before the bread did. "His employees usually leave in a predictable pattern. I've watched the office before. The last to leave is a jogger. She sprints away from the door and doesn't even check to see if it's closed properly before she's already around the corner. I simply caught the door before it shut. Only Garvie remained inside."
Rose leant back in her chair and crossed her arms in front of her.
"And you'd taken a hit of coke by then?"
Sherlock pulled at the buttie, until a piece came away. He popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said finally after swallowing his morsel. "I did a couple of lines at home, then I used the rest of the wrap over the course of the evening. While I was... dealing with Garvie."
"In his office?"
"Yes."
Rose studied him in silence as he picked at the bread. Then he drained the rest of the wine, pushed the glass back toward Rose and said, "More." She looked at the empty glass then back up at him. "Please," he added.
"Let's just take it easy for a moment," she said.
Sherlock sighed and continued picking the bread apart without eating any more.
"I convinced him to resign from the committee. It should be on the website in the next day or two."
Rose straightened up a little in her seat.
"How did you convince him to do that?"
Sherlock met her gaze. He stopped deconstructing the bread.
"I persuaded him."
"How?"
"By using the knowledge I had of him living out his sexual fantasies involving a prostitute dressed as a school girl."
Rose looked away, then abruptly stood up. She grabbed the wine glass and walked back to the kitchen with it. Sherlock pushed the torn up pieces of bread away from him. He bowed his head, cradling it in his hands as he used his fingers to knead his temples. Rose returned with the glass full of wine. Her lips were wet as if she'd already had a sip herself.
"Do you have a headache?" she asked, depositing the wine glass in front of Sherlock.
"Yes."
Rose disappeared into the bathroom this time and returned with three paracetamol tablets.
"They won't even touch the sides," Sherlock said, lifting his head.
"Just take them," Rose said, exhaling in exasperation.
Sherlock popped them into his mouth, then washed them down with half a glass of the wine. Rose reached over and took the glass from him, then promptly drained the rest herself.
"Are you sure you don't want to toke with me?" she asked.
Sherlock smiled weakly.
"I'm sure."
"Because I'm in no hurry to hear the rest of this story."
"I'm in no hurry to tell it."
Rose gave him a tiny smile in return. She reached over and carded her fingers through Sherlock's hair. He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying her loving caress, the scraping of her fingernails against his skull and the steady tugging on his hair follicles. To his disappointment, Rose dropped her hand. She leant over Sherlock and kissed his forehead. Picking up the empty wine glass, she said, "So let's get drunk."
.
