Chapter 55 – I'm Not an Addict, I'm a User
Rose left the dining table for the kitchen, wine glass in hand. Her heart beat dully in her chest. This wasn't how she'd wanted to spend her Friday evening after the week she'd had. She imagined she'd spend it alone, dressed comfortably in her strappy, soft summer dress, and she'd loll about on her sofa watching psychological thrillers and eating chocolate coated peanuts. She'd finish off with her weed and a box of cereal. She'd been hoping Sherlock would show up sometime over the weekend, apologetic and cuddly, indulging her every need. But not right now, not tonight. Not looking the way he did—far worse than how she felt.
Rose knew what she was doing to herself, but her self-diagnosis had little effect on her determination to wipe herself out. Control of her life had been wrenched from her. Her fate rested in the wet hands of a disgusting, sleaze of a man, all because once upon a time she'd veered off the well-trodden wholesome path of sparkling light into the dark forest of sexual exploitation to fulfill the fantasies of another vile, disgusting man who had a school girl fetish.
Tonya Small would have a lot to say about that. Tonya did have a lot to say about that—words Rose usually strived to ignore. Earlier in the year, for instance, Tonya's suggestion was for Rose to break up with Sherlock.
He's your last connection to your exploited past, darling, the Clarence House Cannibal had advised Rose during one of their many walks. You will only fully move on and heal when that connection is severed.
What a load of rubbish, Rose had thought at the time. Nobody ever truly heals.
She bowed her head and heaved a sigh, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. Then reaching up to her overhead cabinet, Rose retrieved a second wine glass. Her intention was for her and Sherlock to finish the bottle of wine between them, and maybe open a second. She hoped this would help Sherlock relax, perhaps take to her sofa and watch telly while Rose donned her coat, went outside and toked on her balcony. And as a final gesture of contrition on his part, he'd make love to her.
At least that was her amended plans for the evening. Tomorrow, when she was working her Saturday shift at the home entertainment store, the answer to the inevitable question, What did you do last night, would be, Oh I had a quiet night in, drinking wine with my boyfriend.
In reality, she was slowly numbing herself with drugs and booze, while her boyfriend was attempting to get over his cocaine-binge hangover after doing God only knew what to Rose's aforementioned vile, disgusting former client. Rose didn't want to know the details of Sherlock's visit to John Garvie, at least not while she was sober. What had Sherlock planned to do last night to Garvie that had required him to be high on coke first?
If Sherlock needed more from her, other than substances to help bring him down tonight, then she had nothing to offer. Her cup was well and truly empty. She wanted to curl up in his arms, to feel his strength and support. She didn't want him like this, a broken, half version of himself. Was she being selfish?
Rose grabbed the neck of the wine bottle and took it and the two glasses back to the dining table. She expected to find Sherlock still sitting there, his head bowed, massaging his headache. Instead, he was restlessly pacing the living room. He had removed his jacket and had slung it over the back of an armchair.
Obviously he was still operating on high levels of adrenalin, Rose guessed. She'd often listened to Billy discussing the various effects each drug had on a person when they were coming down, or crashing, the next day at his place. Food for the stimulant users, he'd always advised her. Their appetites had been suppressed and they had to force themselves to eat. Only later would their appetites turn ravenous. She'd listened in a mixture of mild curiosity and anxiety when Billy explained that some stimulant users were handy to have around when he needed to break into a place because of their high levels of adrenalin. That was also one of the reasons Billy insisted that Rose toke in his locked bedroom.
"Summa them are horny as hell, Rosie. Don't want you layin' about passed out down 'ere."
Rose placed the wine and the stemware onto the table then set about pouring each glass. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. She could feel his eyes boring into her.
"No, Rose," he said eventually.
"What?" she asked, placing the bottle back down onto the table. Rose remained standing as she lifted a glass to her lips.
"I don't want anything."
As Sherlock approached her, Rose gulped down a mouthful of wine.
"Suit yourself," she said as he stopped in front of her. "But you do need something to relax. And you need sleep, Sherlock."
"I need you..." he said, the intensity of his gaze causing Rose's heart to falter. He reached for her glass, which she gave up easily. "...without any of this." He placed it back onto the table. "Or that," he added, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen where her marijuana lay waiting. He threaded the fingers on one hand through hers. His voice crackled a little when he said, "I need your company. Not anyone else's. Yours." Rose felt a weight descend on her, and her eyes pricked with tears. "And the more you have of that, the further you drift away from me."
The desperate edge to his voice rang heavy on Rose's heart.
"You can't… have... me," she heard herself saying, her voice strange and distant. "I don't want to be... here."
A flicker of hurt crossed Sherlock's features before he set his jaw firmly.
He reached for her arm and held her lightly. His hand on her bare flesh cooled her. Standing over her, Sherlock asked, through narrow eyes, "Do you have any idea what I went through for you last night?"
A sense of dread rippled through Rose. The surrounding air pressed in on her. She didn't want to know. She tore free from Sherlock's grip and backed away.
Sherlock wasn't ever supposed to exist in the same room as John Garvie. He couldn't breathe the same air as that man. To do so, would give life to her nightmare. Something that was a distant memory was being brought into sharp focus once more, and turned into flesh, as Charles Augustus Magnussen had done the night he'd visited her.
Rose made to put distance between her and Sherlock. She turned from him and headed for the bathroom, but she was abruptly stopped by a firm hold on her wrist. Sherlock pulled her around, trapping her against the wall by the kitchen. Rose's chest heaved as she fought for her next breath. Sherlock had released her wrist, but he blocked her from moving away. He didn't touch her, but leant on the wall, his mouth hovering over hers, his steady breath clashing with her ragged, shallow one.
He said nothing, as if he was calculating something. All Rose could hear was her own breathing as the silence around them stilled the air and kept it from igniting.
In this close proximity, Rose examined the sharp angles and shadows on Sherlock's face. It was as if it had been carved from marble. She avoided his gaze, instead, dropping her eyes to the soft curves of his mouth in contrast.
She knew how his mouth would feel on hers, how pliant and warm those lips could be. The taste of him, the thrill of a darting tongue, the hunger in his explorations—the thought of all these heated the blood that raced beneath her skin.
Rose tilted her chin, parting her lips as her eyes hooded over. She strained forward; he resisted, maintaining the distance between them. Desire clouded her thoughts. Every nerve-ending screamed to be touched by this man.
She watched as Sherlock dropped his gaze by degree, as if his eyes were caressing every bare inch of skin from her jawline, along her neck, to the curve exposed by the thin dress strap that had fallen from her shoulder. Could he detect arousal in every one of her pores? Rose wondered.
Sherlock straightened a little and dropped the hand that had supported him against the wall. Rose felt a tickle against the back of her thigh, underneath her dress as Sherlock lightly skimmed her skin with his fingertips. Higher they rose, his soft touch following the curve of her buttock until his fingers slipped underneath her lace thong.
Rose stopped breathing. His fingers blazed a trail wherever they touched. Sherlock's gaze returned to her eyes. His own were curious now, and he tilted his head a little, bringing his lips closer to hers, but still not quite touching. His fingers now skimmed around her hip, teasing her in their luxurious, but intimate, navigation. Rose clutched the front of his shirt, willing both mouth and fingers to reach their desired destinations. This moment of anticipation burned through her like no experience she could ever recall.
When his fingers finally pressed against her, her breath was forcefully expelled from her lungs. It was then that his mouth closed over hers, as if he also needed that moment to connect fully. His hand and tongue worked in perfect synchronicity, their dexterity eliciting soft moans from Rose against Sherlock's mouth. She could taste him behind the sweetness of the wine they'd shared as his tongue danced with hers.
She returned his kiss in equal measures. Desired continued to drizzle through her as Sherlock used his clever fingers and tongue against her.
Sherlock suddenly broke from her and reached down with his free hand to grasp one of Rose's legs behind her knee, yanking it upwards, so she could curl her leg around him.
His fingers plunged inside and Rose dropped her head back against the wall and gasped his name in shock. The urgency built inside her with every stroke and she needed to taste him again. But Sherlock had slipped her other strap from her shoulder, tugging at her dress while his mouth skimmed the side of her throat, nipping and sucking. Rose clutched desperately at his shirt, then brought her hands up to dive her fingers into his hair. She closed her eyes, arching against his hand as his mouth sought a path to her breasts. Her body throbbed and ached, her excitement mounting.
Sherlock teased her with light flicks of his tongue, and Rose struggled to hold on to anything, almost coming completely undone. His fingers left her, and before she could feel bereft in their absence, Sherlock was already inside her. Just when he had managed to free himself, she had no idea. Her response was to gasp in shocked delight. Finally his breathing matched hers and came in short, sharp bursts.
Rose gloried in the feel of him, the strength of his hold, the steady rhythm of his love-making. Sherlock hoisted her higher still, until both her legs were wrapped around him and the pressure became unbearable. He drove her with a tirelesss energy, pressing her hard against the wall. Her eyes moistened as she teetered on the brink, as if this were the end, the end of everything. Before panic could take hold, her orgasm tore through her and she was swept along by a torrent of pleasurable pulsating sensations.
Sherlock was not far behind. He had bowed his head against the wall as his arms supported Rose's weight. As he continued to rock into her, he buried his face in her neck, as he had done last Saturday night. His silence, apart from his ragged breathing, disturbed Rose. She thought he could feel it too—a loss of something that had once been so fresh and innocent that had somehow become degraded and soured.
When he shuddered and stiffened, his body erupting with his own climax, his grip around Rose tightened. She breathlessly clung to him, her body shimmering with the scent and taste of him. After Sherlock stilled, they remained entwined, holding each other for support, chests heaving and bodies tingling.
Carefully and tenderly, Sherlock lowered Rose to the floor. To her surprise, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, as if greeting her for the first time that evening. As he looked away, he winced a little, closing his eyes with a tiny shake of his head.
"Does your headache feel worse?" Rose asked, her voice sounding odd as it pierced the silence.
"Mm," Sherlock responded, relinquishing his hold on her. "I think I'll—"
His words were cut short by three sharp knocks on the door. Sherlock looked toward the entrance then brought his hands around to the front of his trousers to tuck himself in.
"Expecting someone?" he asked as Rose struggled to rearrange her own underwear that had become twisted underneath her dress.
"Oh. Fucking hell. Sorry. Just Billy."
"Billy?"
She smoothed her dress around her hips. Nice timing, Billy.
"Yeah. I…" She drew in steadying breath, full aware her cheeks were flushed and her hair in disarray. "I didn't really think you'd come back with my… ah… stuff, so I rang Billy to bring me some more. He won't be staying. Just… dropping it off."
Sherlock frowned at her in disapproval, then ran an expert eye over her, from head to toe.
"Why don't you go…" He paused, blinking a couple of times as if only just realising what they had been doing. "Um… clean yourself up... a bit. I'll get the door."
Rose turned to leave, grateful for the suggestion when Sherlock said, "Oh, Rose." He shifted uncomfortably then cleared his throat. "You might want to... um... cover yourself up with your dressing gown." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her chest.
Rose's hand immediately went to her throat as she headed for the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror revealed not one but four red welts on her skin, leading from the crook of her neck toward her breasts, like a dot-to-dot landscape of lust. They'd be a nice reddish purple by tomorrow morning. Just in time for work.
Rose sighed and briefly closed her eyes. She barely remembered Sherlock making those. He had been...
What?
Not violent. Definitely not.
Not even rough.
Passionate? Enthusiastic?
Those words sounded far too positive and upbeat. Sherlock had been far from happy during their sexual encounter. Not even vaguely pleased.
Driven, she finally decided.
As she sat on the toilet and held her head in her hands, she felt the same weight of despair descend on her. She had said to him that she didn't want to be here. She had meant in this present state of mind. And now Billy was bringing her a second lot of cannabis. Perfect for relocating and not being here for the entire weekend. If only Sherlock would toke with her. It would do him the world of good; she was sure of it.
When she returned to the living area, wrapped in her dressing gown, she heard the end of a question that Sherlock was posing to Billy.
"…anything other than cooking up meth?"
Billy's eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed uselessly.
"I… er…" he said, before he spied Rose. "Oh, hey, Rosie."
Sherlock turned to her as well, as if he hadn't realised she had joined them. He held a plastic bag of cannabis by his side, which she presumed was for her from Billy.
"Hi, Billy."
She hastened to give her friend a hug, to which he responded, "All right, Rosie?"
"Thanks for coming round," Rose replied. "I'll bring some food over tomorrow after work, yeah?"
"And don't forget them Pringles," Billy said, as he headed for the door. "All right, Shezza?"
Sherlock gave the stoner a vague nod in response, then made to close the door.
"Oh. Bill-y," the detective said uncertainly before the door closed fully. Sherlock turned to Rose and held out the bag of cannabis.
Rose regarded him in silence. It wasn't too hard to figure out what he was indicating here. Billy was standing outside, waiting for Sherlock to say something, while Sherlock was stalling and waiting for Rose to leave before he could talk to her drug supplier in confidence.
Rose made a point of narrowing her eyes at Sherlock to let him know that she knew he was up to something. She snatched the bag from him and left the living room for the kitchen. In the next room she could hear Sherlock's deep baritone, but not what was spoken.
She grabbed the second bag of marijuana from the counter and stared at the packet of Rizla papers for a moment.
This isn't fair, she thought. Just what was Sherlock planning? Why was he interested in what else Billy cooked in his kitchen? Was Sherlock keen on some other drug apart from coke? So why couldn't she get stoned on her stash?
She heard the deadbolts snap back into place, so she took both baggies and left the kitchen. From the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock crossing the living room, but she didn't stop until she reached her bedroom. Annoyed with herself and her own indecision, she angrily pulled open her underwear drawer and dropped the bags of weed inside. Having Sherlock around and moody would put a damper on her high, she had concluded.
She left the bedroom and was surprised to find Sherlock in neither the kitchen nor the living room. She was stunned when she heard him throwing up in the bathroom. She bowed her head and ran her fingers through her hair, listening for a few seconds. He wasn't having a good time of it. But then again, who did?
Rose strode into the kitchen and retrieved a glass tumbler from the cupboard. She half-filled it with water then headed to the bathroom where she found the door ajar. She stood outside for a moment until she heard the toilet flushing.
She pushed open the door and asked, "Are you okay?"
Sherlock was standing in front of the basin with the tap running. He bent over and splashed water onto his face, then spat into the sink.
"I will be," he rasped.
He washed his face again while Rose looked on, patiently waiting with the glass of water. Sherlock turned the tap off, then looked over to her as he wiped a hand towel over his face. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, his face flushed.
"Migraine," he said by way of explanation, dumping the towel into the sink. He accepted the water when Rose held it out to him. He gulped it down then handed her the glass back. "Thank you," he said, his mouth forming an uneasy smile. "I'm being reminded of the glorious benefits of poor quality cocaine."
"Poor quality?" Rose repeated. "Not just cocaine in general?"
Sherlock turned to the sink again. He busied himself with arranging the hand towel back onto its rail as he spoke.
"When I used to buy cocaine, I would purchase two wraps. One for my… session, and one for the craving, hours later."
"So you've got a craving now?" Rose asked, furrowing her brow. "You're going to use the second lot?"
Sherlock faced Rose once more, lightly placing his hands on his hips as he spoke.
"I already have. This morning." He dropped his gaze and began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. "I would buy two wraps at a time, but it didn't mean I would stop there. I'd go out and buy two more. I could do that all week, thinking each pair would be the last. But I wanted to avoid crashing at all costs."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Nothing," Sherlock replied. He turned from her and faced the mirror above the sink as he began unfastening his shirt buttons. "That session served a purpose. I'm done."
Rose regarded Sherlock's profile for a moment, unsure how she felt about Sherlock's seemingly casual indifference to his drug usage and his confidence that he wouldn't use again.
"What did you ask Billy?"
Sherlock released the final button and shrugged the shirt from his shoulders.
Dropping the item to the floor, he said, "I'm going to have a shower."
Sherlock turned his back to Rose and unhooked his trousers. She slowly shook her head and left the bathroom.
Rose not-so-carefully deposited the glass in the kitchen sink then busied herself clearing the table of the wine, bread and butter, and putting the tobacco and Rizla papers into the kitchen drawer. All the while, she silently fumed.
She leaned heavily onto the counter-top and longed to take that first drag from a badly rolled joint and blissfully drift away.
Were they going to continue the evening moving around each other like vague acquaintances? They'd fucked like a couple who'd hooked up in a nightclub and had sought some inner city back alley in which to engage in urgent, anonymous sex. Is that what Sherlock thought? Is that why he gave her a loving, tender kiss afterwards—to counter their emotionless act?
Her heart twinged at the thought of the kiss and the man who had delivered it. She loved him, the stupid bastard. But why couldn't she support him in this?
Because she didn't know what this was. He was dating another woman—setting up one cozy dinner rendezvous after another, inviting her around for coffee at his place, sending flirty emails and having her sleep over. And then when Rose had pointed out he'd done nothing about Garvie, Sherlock had done something, while high on coke!
Rose's eyes stung and she blinked in vain.
Of course she was jealous of Janine, and fearful about Garvie.
Rose slowly shook her head about the other woman.
Coffee and dinner? In public? When would she and Sherlock ever have that kind of indulgent lifestyle together?
Never!
Because he would always be Sherlock Holmes, the famous Consulting Detective who had returned from the dead, and she, Rosemarie Sulford, would always be an ex-prostitute, and therefore a potential human headline.
She was jealous of a fucking fake girlfriend.
"Rose?"
Rose let out an audible gasp. She quickly wiped her eyes, and said, "What?" without turning around.
"Would you…" Rose heard him slowly move into the kitchen. His voice sounded cautious and tentative. "Would you like to have a shower with me?"
"Just give me a minute," she said, her voice rough and thick.
Sherlock came up behind her, his bare arms encircling her. He rested his chin on top of her head. Her body felt warmed by his, but the tears flowed freely now. Rose turned around in his arms and hugged his naked torso. Evidently he didn't get very far with his shower preparations, as he was still in trousers. Rose hiccuped a sob as Sherlock drew her in tightly. She realised that the one minute he was giving her would be a minute spent in his loving embrace.
.
A/N: Apologies for crawling along at a snail's pace. I will be doing some time-jumping in the next chapter to hurry the month along a bit. I just thought it was worth getting into Rose's head at this stage. Please bear with…
Dear guest reviewer, Someone, thanks for your lovely words. I'm happy to talk about all things to do with my story if you ever want to PM. Thanks for reading!
