Chapter 56 – I Know What Kind of Man You Are
Friday night was progressing without any further fuss or out of character shenanigans, Sherlock was finding, to his relief. He had held Rose firmly, and kissed the top of her head. It didn't take a detective-genius to deduce why she was upset. Clearly everything about Sherlock's actions over the last couple of weeks bothered her. He didn't want to talk any more, analysing this and that. His head was about to split in two and he really wanted to curl up in bed around her and sleep for all eternity. If only his mind would quiet.
"Come on," he'd said softly after a fashion. "The shower's already running."
He led her to the shower and to his delight, they lathered and shampooed each other's hair. This was fast becoming one of those wonderful routines to add to those he and Rose had already created together.
Rose left him in the shower for a lot longer. Obviously she could tell that the pattering of water on his head soothed his skull.
"I'll pop out and get something," she said as she towel-dried herself. "You still need to eat."
Sherlock could only stomach a small serving of hot chips from the kebab shop on the corner. Thankfully, he managed to keep that lot down, as well as the second dose of paracetamol given to him by Rose. At Rose's insistence, they settled down onto the sofa, Sherlock with his head in Rose's lap, atop a cushion, and Rose with her legs stretched out on the coffee table. While she watched a psychological thriller, and he largely ignored it, Rose carded her fingers through Sherlock's hair. She raked her fingernails against his scalp, tugged at the roots, and generally massaged his throbbing head all over. His headache had eased back into a dull ache thanks to Rose's attention. Sherlock didn't know at what point he'd fallen asleep, but it couldn't have been too far into the movie.
The next thing he knew, he had woken up on the sofa, all alone, to a darkened flat. His headache had returned with a vengeance. Sherlock padded into the kitchen, gulped down more paracetamol, then joined Rose in bed. It was four o'clock in the morning, and he fell back to sleep in an instant.
Light kisses rained his face, gently stirring him from a deep slumber. The perfume and deodorant that reached his nostrils eventually told him that Rose was awake and about to leave for work. Sherlock climbed out of his half sleep as quickly as he could.
"Oh, no, don't wake up," Rose whispered.
"Too late," he murmured.
"Sorry."
Sherlock frowned and turned to look at the clock on the bedside table through narrow eyes. It was just after seven. He tutted.
"You're on opening the shop."
"Yes," Rose replied. She reached out and ran her fingers through Sherlock's fringe. He briefly closed his eyes again. "I didn't want to wake you from your sleep last night," she told him. "You didn't even stir when I moved out from under you." Sherlock hummed agreeably. "How's your head?" she asked softly.
"Awful."
"I'll get you more tablets, but I'll make you a couple of slices of toast before I leave."
Rose withdrew her hand and leant away from him. Sherlock snapped his eyes open at the absence of her soothing caress, then winced because of the action.
"No, Rose, just wait, wait, wait for a second."
She remained where she was, sitting by his side, then she lightly rubbed her thumb across his furrowed brow.
"What can I get you?" she asked.
Sherlock was revelling in Rose's affectionate tone and loving gestures. He reached up and held her hand against his temple.
"I want you to take the day off and spend it at home, nursing me back to health."
Rose chuckled lightly. The sound was like music to his ears.
"No, sorry."
Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile. "It was worth a try," he said, dropping his hand.
"So, I'll get you that toast."
"No. Wait—just a minute."
His tone was less jovial now. Rose didn't respond, but the softness immediately left her face.
Sherlock hoisted himself up to the bedhead, his brow furrowed against the throbbing of his persistent headache.
"Rose," he said, reaching for her hand. She sighed. Not music to his ears. "I… um…" he began. Not a good start. Rose continued to scrutinise him in silence. "I'm so close to getting Janine to open up about working for Magnussen…" He paused on noticing the thinning of Rose's lips. Well, there was no going back now. "And all it would take is one more dinner. In fact I'm sure of it." Rose sighed through her nostrils. Sherlock heard it. She wasn't being very discreet about her displeasure. "And… since I stood her up the other night, because of… you know…" Rose's eyes narrowed even further. Sherlock turned his attention to the hand he held. He ran his thumb over the smooth skin there. "… I should probably take her out tonight."
Rose continued to study him as if waiting for additional information. When it was evident that Sherlock wasn't going to add anything, she sighed, "Okay."
Her expression didn't change, but she straightened up, as if to leave.
"I'll get your—"
"Rose. We won't have coffee afterwards. I'll come over here after dinner. "
Her gaze no longer met Sherlock's.
"Do what you need to do."
She stood up and left the room before Sherlock could say anything else.
Sherlock slowly sank into the covers. The pounding in his head threatened to bring with it waves of nausea. He had wanted to follow Rose out into the kitchen, and on a normal day he would have, given he was now awake. And clearly she was still upset about his plans with Janine, despite him doing Rose's bidding and instigating the removal of John Garvie from the Media and Communications committee, with the added bonus of the future arrest of the bastard on charges of corruption. But this morning self-preservation had kicked in, and he lay, largely immobile, on her bed until Rose returned with a cup of tea, a glass of water, a plate of toast, and paracetamol tablets.
She set the tray down onto her bedside table.
"You must be feeling poorly," she remarked. "You don't usually stay in bed once you're awake, unless—"
"—you're in it," he finished for her with a grim smile.
She matched his expression with a half-hearted smile of her own. It didn't meet her eyes, Sherlock noted.
"Well, I'm leaving now," she said, taking a seat on the bed. She leant over to kiss Sherlock goodbye.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, thus disrupting their goodbye ritual before it had even commenced.
Rose sat back and sighed. "Sherlock," she said.
He'd take that as a 'yes,' so he ventured forth.
"Do you trust Ms Small?"
Rose's shoulders drooped a little, and she bowed her head, lowering her eyes. Sherlock reached for her hand once more. He'd take her little gesture as a nod of affirmation as well.
"Because I have been running things past her in regard to infiltrating Magnussen's fortress," he continued, "and most of it's her idea anyway."
"I know."
They regarded each other in an uncomfortable silence, their hands still clasped together, before Rose leant over and kissed Sherlock's forehead. His eyes fluttered shut momentarily as he heaved a sigh in disappointment. He didn't know what he had wanted from Rose, but words of encouragement or applause for his current progress may have been nice.
When he opened his eyes again, Rose asked, "Do you love me?"
"Yes."
Rose studied Sherlock's eyes as if she was looking for something there. Finally, and to Sherlock's relief, she said, "I love you, too." She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, but before he knew it, she had left the bedroom.
As the front door clicked shut, Sherlock wearily looked over to the breakfast tray. Tea, toast, tablets. Not an attractive prospect for early morning consumption. He'd prefer something stronger. Seven percent stronger.
Still, he thought, sliding upwards to a sitting position and reaching for the toast, he would need something in his stomach to throw up in a minute.
Dinner with Janine was an intimate affair, in an exclusive restaurant, as per Tonya Small's specifications. The Grosvenor Square fine-dining, celebrity chef-owned venue was booked out month's in advance. It was only due to one or two tables regularly kept reserved for the most influential of society's upperclass to allow them to 'walk up' that one could ever think to make a booking for the same night. In fact, one would have to be royalty, a visiting world leader, a Hollywood A-lister, or a Consulting Detective who knew a thing or two about both the maitre d' and the celebrity chef to be able to acquire such a table.
"Wow," Janine remarked as they were finally left alone with their menus. "My boss can only ever get a table in here by blackmailing someone."
She laughed, indicating that she was only joking, however Sherlock knew the truth behind the quip. But here was the opening he had been waiting for, and he wasted no time in keeping the conversation topic on Janine's work and her employer.
Janine, well-lubricated by now from the twenty-eight-year-old red wine, and thoroughly relaxed by her amusing and intelligent thirty-three-year-old companion, slowly revealed the intricacies of working for someone like Charles Augustus Magnussen. Her initially cagey responses of "he's a challenge to work for," were further expanded on as the hour grew late. She added that Charles, as she called him, knew something about her, some silly little irresponsible thing she'd done in her early twenties. While he didn't exactly laud it over her, it had set the tone for their employer-employee relationship. She did, however, consider working for the owner-proprietor of CAM Global News to be good for her career in the long run.
Their conversation turned to Janine's accommodation woes, and how unwelcome her friend Amber was making Janine feel, even though the latter had hardly spent any time in London this week. Fortunately, for Janine, she had the chance to check out a place to rent tomorrow afternoon, and she coyly asked Sherlock if he would accompany her to check out if the landlord was a sleaze or not. Sherlock agreed to her request, outwardly smiling, but inwardly dreading how he would tell Rose that their all-day-in-bed Sunday cuddling session was going to be disrupted once more because of Janine Hawkins.
After a pause in conversation, due to their table being cleared, Sherlock took the opportunity to further cement his place in Janine's heart. As the hour grew late, he confessed to being a drug addict.
Janine took his apology for his appalling behaviour on Friday afternoon in the spirit in which it was intended. She was both horrified on his behalf and sympathetic to his plight. On Thursday night he had relapsed, he told her, and he had been crashing on Friday, which explained his aggressive and irritable manner. Janine reacted with all the right words. She hadn't known; how could she be so insensitive as to walk into his flat and demand an apology.
He was playing her, and she was responding beautifully.
"It's been a long time since I've been anywhere near..." He sighed as if the confession was taking a toll on his spirit. "I can't let John know," he gracefully side-stepped, his voice like gravel, such was the burden of emotion it carried. "I've had his support for so many years. He'd be... disappointed."
There was an element of truth in his statement, but he swiftly switched out the real guilt he felt for a fake one.
He waited for the "Oh, Sherl," that would normally accompany his sporadic outpourings of emotion. Janine did not leave him hanging for long.
But he needed to bind her to him a little more tightly. Thus far, she'd reacted exactly how he'd wanted her to.
He drew in a steadying breath.
"I've always had someone... to rely on, for support. But now, since John's wedding..."
He dropped his gaze to the table and fiddled with his napkin. Janine reached out and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze.
"Oh, Sherl, you ninny. You know, you've got me."
Sherlock kept his eyes on their entwined fingers. He counted backwards in his head to get the timing just right. Eyes moist with gratitude, he slowly met Janine's gaze. He locked his eyes on hers and said nothing in response for several seconds.
Then, apparently, the cold detective-genius realised how awkward the situation had become and suddenly withdrew his hand, coughed, then straightened in his chair. A stilted conversation about dessert followed and the decision to skip coffee was made.
His evening's work was almost complete. There was just that one last challenge.
The kiss.
"So, you've never had rehab or counselling?" Janine probed as they walked along Grosvenor Square, near the U.S. Embassy in search of a cab.
Counselling, Sherlock repeated in his mind. Now that was a word he'd heard far too often these days, thanks to Rose. And then an idea struck him, one that would give him a connection to Rose, should Magnussen's spies ever pick up on anything. Not quite the detestable cover of counsellor that Rose had given herself when talking to Mary and, earlier, his landlady, but still one that was quite plausible.
"Not really, despite my brother's best efforts," he began, eyeing the black cabs that passed them by. He'd need one later, at just the right moment. He sighed deeply, for dramatic effect. "While I don't have a counsellor or therapist, I do, however, have a sponsor, of sorts."
"A sponsor? Well, that's interesting. What kind of person would sponsor Sherlock Holmes?"
"Not a very good one, I'm afraid." Sherlock gave Janine half-smile. "I rarely see her. She's fallen off the wagon a couple of times herself. She thinks I've no idea, but—"
"You're Sherlock Holmes," Janine replied, a sparkle of affection in her eyes.
"Precisely."
"Please don't tell me it was you who made her fall off the wagon."
"I hope not," he replied in good humour. It probably was, Sherlock thought, bitterness creeping into his mind. If the fictitious Rose-the-sponsor was anything like Rose-his-girlfriend, then he most likely would be the cause of her over-indulgence in Class B drugs.
They stopped walking as Sherlock raised an arm for a cab that was further along the street.
"Look," Janine said, a serious edge to her voice, and one that Sherlock had been counting on hearing. "If you ever need someone to talk to... or hang out with," she added, a sheepish smile creeping in, "I'm here, okay? Well... when I'm in town. Day or night, just a phone call away."
A faint smile graced Sherlock's lips as he looked down on Janine.
"Thank - you," he said, feigning great reluctance. Sherlock Holmes, after all, rarely asked for, or thanked people for, assistance.
Sherlock maintained eye contact with Janine, giving the impression that he was contemplating his next move. He could read the anticipation in her eyes as he moved closer. Steeling himself for the worst, but keeping the outward appearance of a confident seducer, he dropped his voice a couple of notches and said, "Good night, Janine." Before she could respond, he placed a gentle hand behind her elbow and bowed his head, laying his lips lightly on hers.
To his surprise, and relief, her lips were soft and undemanding. That she didn't immediately swallow him whole came as an enormous relief to Sherlock. He kept his mouth closed, but not too unyielding. It was longer than a smack, but shorter than one of his and Rose's standard goodbyes. He eased back before her lips parted. Everything he'd been hoping to see in her eyes was there.
In two quick strides, Sherlock was over to the kerb and holding the cab door open for Janine.
Perfect timing, cabbie, Sherlock thought, as he observed Janine attempting to recompose herself as she joined him by the taxi.
"Thank you for dinner," she said a little breathily, as she settled into the back seat.
"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, then?" he asked, in a conversational tone as if the kiss had not happened.
"Ah... yeah. Thanks. 2pm."
Sherlock gave her a nod and a faint smile before closing the cab door on her. He raised a hand in farewell at the darkened window, then turned, swiftly making tracks in the opposite direction as the cab pulled away from the kerb.
Sherlock reflected on the kiss as he walked along. He wouldn't signal for another taxi yet; he needed to smoke. And think.
His heart-rate was only slightly elevated, but he knew the cause was the anticipation of the kiss, rather than as a result of the kiss itself. He made the comparison that kissing Janine was like kissing a long-lost relative. Not of the Uncle Rudy variety, but perhaps a cousin. A distant cousin. Perhaps one he only vaguely knew the name of. Not even a slight hint of passion passed between them, he concluded. At least not from his perspective. Janine's reaction told him all about her perspective.
Good. This was not going to be an issue for him at all.
By the time Sherlock reached Leinster Gardens, his heart-rate raced along once more. He could no longer anticipate the mood in which he'd find Rose. He could only live in hope for the tender and caring version of Rose that had showered him with affection late last night and in those first few minutes of him waking this morning.
Sherlock's heart jolted in disappointment once he'd entered the flat. The air was heavy in Rose's absence and Sherlock felt a lead weight materialise in the pit of his stomach.
Saturday night. It was barely on eleven. Rose had never said she was going anywhere. She didn't have counselling at the ASXX, as that was on Wednesday nights. Sherlock knew that Rose had some semblance of a social life, preferring to either go out with her workmates, or toke with Billy in that shit-hole in east London. Maybe there were other friends he didn't know about? Old uni friends? Strippers? Prostitutes?
Former clients?
Or she could be having a lovely, quiet, sedate, sober dinner with her parents.
The last option very rarely happened, but it was still a possibility, and one Sherlock hoped for.
If he rang her to find out, there was always the chance she could be stoned, and Sherlock didn't want to participate in a conversation like the one they had on Wednesday night when she had been high. Nor did he want to pick her up from there. Even less palatable was the thought of her staying overnight in Billy's room.
Sherlock decided to stay where he was, in Bayswater. He didn't have the energy to head on over to Bart's and ring Molly to provide him with something interesting to poke at. And besides, she was probably playing Charades or something equally appalling with that fiancé of hers and their other couple-y friends.
So Sherlock showered, shaved, donned pyjamas and decided to watch something on telly. Or surf the net on Rose's laptop, read her emails, that kind of thing. The idea of checking his own emails and trawling through them for mediocre cases held less of an appeal.
Sherlock had just settled down onto Rose's sofa, cup of tea by his side on the coffee table, pointless reality television programme on the box, and Rose's emails listed in front of him, when he spotted a potentially relevant message.
It came from Sunil, who Sherlock knew to be a co-worker of Rose's. Sunil had sent the message to a bunch of people as well as Rose, Sherlock noted, inviting them to his engagement party tonight.
Well, there you have it, Sherlock thought, only mildly anxious. But on further examination he realised there was a brief exchange of emails between Sunil and Rose after the invitation had been sent. Sunil was asking Rose if she could contact 'that Billy guy.'
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at those three little words, harmless at first glance, but heavy in their implication. He quickly discarded Rose's laptop and leapt from the sofa. Disappointingly, he found what he'd been hoping not to find: Rose's underwear drawer only contained undergarments. No cannabis!
Sherlock stared at a lacy, black thong, which he viewed rather affectionately with the memories it conjured, before he shook those thoughts loose and settled on an alternate plan. If Rose returned tonight, or even in the early hours, she would most definitely not be herself, and Sherlock wanted to avoid seeing her like that at all costs. So, he swiftly undressed, dumping his pyjamas onto the bed and donned his shirt, trousers and jacket once more.
Finally, he regarded the crumpled-up pjs that he'd left on the corner of Rose's bed. Normally, he'd fold them carefully and stow them in the top drawer of Rose's bureau. This time he decided to leave a message—clues, actually—that he had been here, and had decided to leave because he was unimpressed.
He pulled open Rose's underwear drawer. Another clue. Let her see that he had checked. And those two items along with the cold tea on the coffee table and her laptop displaying the last message he read would definitely lead Rose to the right conclusion. Sherlock had been here waiting for her in his cuddly pyjamas, but had left after learning that Rose had gone to a party and had taken her stash of drugs with her.
Not a difficult deduction to make.
Sherlock wasn't one for playing silly mind games. He used to leave that to John. All his huffing and puffing and tutting around Sherlock had little effect on the detective. But Sherlock was genuinely disappointed with his girlfriend. He had told Rose he'd be back here after dinner with Janine, and Rose had failed to let him know that she wouldn't be.
Rose squinted at the sun, then sighed heavily at having to stop by a small shrub—the third (or fourth?)—against which Tonya's puppy had lifted its hind leg. She retrieved her sunglasses from the top of her head and covered her eyes with them once more.
She had no idea why she had agreed to walking Tonya's dogs with the woman herself. The Clarence House Cannibal was under the weather as well. Perhaps it was a case of misery loving company.
It served Rose right, though, toking at Sunil's til all hours, getting a lift home at the crack of dawn and finding that Sherlock had been at her place, and had left in a bit of a huff. At least, that was how she saw it. The evidence was all there. Sherlock would've been proud of her ability to deduce what had happened, if he wasn't pissed off with her about it. Their Sunday cuddling routine had practically been abandoned of late.
She had tried to sleep in, but felt like eating an enormous brunch. Not having much money left in her account (and payday was still a week away) she drifted upstairs to Tonya's. The air inside Ms Small's flat was thick with stale cigarette smoke. Rose considered the dining table that was now in the middle of the living room and various cups and empty wine bottles littering the floor beside it. She came to her own conclusion about Tonya's evening as well.
"Poker night?" Rose asked.
"Yes, darling," came the reply from the reclined Tonya Small, who was wearing a pair of sunglasses even though she was inside her own flat.
The woman complained of "feeling dizzy," to which Rose suggested she get some fresh air. Surely constantly breathing in all that stale smoke couldn't be good for her. The next thing she knew, Rose was balancing a coffee in one hand, and a custard danish and a dog leash in the other.
"I don't know how he still has anything left in his bladder," Rose remarked, indicating Dorangel (or was it Armin?).
Weird names for puppies, she had thought at the time she'd first learnt them. When she'd told Sherlock sometime last year, he'd laughed, telling her he already knew their names, and did she know who Ms Small's dogs had been named after?
Cannibals, he'd replied, chuckling.
Rose shuddered at the thought as she sank down onto a park bench beside Tonya, who had already decided that she'd had enough of dragging her puppies all over Kensington Gardens.
But Rose's eyes had watered when she thought about Sherlock. She was seriously considering breaking up with him. She couldn't see them having a future together. It just wasn't possible with her past and his fame. All of these thoughts had gone through her head as they lay on her sofa together on Friday night and she had soothed his headache until he'd fallen asleep. It was true that she hadn't wanted to interrupt his sleep, but her other reason for not waking him was because she didn't want him to see that she had been crying. At that point, she thought it inevitable that she would break up with him.
And fairly soon, too.
In the morning, with all the promise of a new day, she'd immediately felt guilty about her morose and defeated thoughts the night before, and she set about reminding herself of all the aspects of Sherlock she loved. His feigning sleep so he could enjoy her attention whenever she kissed him awake was one of them. But then he had mentioned Janine again, and all her previous night's thoughts came tumbling back, taking up residence in her mind and growing and festering throughout the day. It was little wonder that she decided to wipe herself out at Sunil's engagement party.
"What's wrong, darling?" Tonya asked, breaking into Rose's thoughts. The puppies were busy sniffing the park bench before deciding on a good spot to mark their territory.
Rose considered what she wanted to ask Tonya about her and Sherlock's plans involving Janine Hawkins. Of course Tonya would detect that there was meaning behind Rose's prolonged silence.
Finally she asked, "Just how far is Sherlock planning to go with this dinner dating thing?"
"I'm sorry, darling?"
Rose heaved a sigh and gently tugged on the dog leash. Dorangel and Armin had decided to snipe at each other in their boredom at having to remain around the bench.
"With Janine," she replied. "Is he aiming to be her friend and confidante, or has he got something more intimate planned?"
"Oh dear, Rosebud," Tonya replied, her voice dripping with sincerity. "Our plan is for Mr Holmes to become firm friends with Magnussen's secretary. Anything more would be crossing the line."
Behind her sunglasses, Rose's eyes stung again. Why should she now care how close Sherlock and Janine became if she was going to end their relationship anyway?
Tonya rearranged herself so that she could lean in and speak to Rose at a confidential pitch.
"We all know the man he was," the Clarence House Cannibal began. Rose stifled an eyeroll. At least nowadays Tonya refrained from likening Sherlock to John Garvie. "If he tries to seduce Ms Hawkins, why, he'd not only be betraying you—the woman he loves—but he'd be exploiting Ms Hawkins who has been left in a vulnerable position. And as you've assured me several times, Mr Holmes respects women; he's unlikely to use one so heartlessly."
"Right," Rose said, her mind spinning in confusion.
"He wouldn't have sex with her, darling," Tonya all but whispered. "Even kissing her would be out of the question. That would be such a blatant disregard for your relationship."
Do you trust me? Sherlock had asked her yesterday morning. Do you trust Ms Small?
Rose had faith in both of them. But what did it matter now? Her chest tightened and she felt a sharp stab in her heart when she once again thought of when to break up with Sherlock. Her breath came in shallow bursts and she looked away from Tonya, who was now leaning down to untwist the puppies who had tangled their leashes around each other.
The end of next week, Rose decided. Then she'd have all weekend to numb herself with alcohol and weed.
"Bloody hell, Mycroft," Sherlock all but yelled into his phone. He was standing a discreet distance away from Janine, who was busy texting her potential new landlord. "If they're not leaving forever," he said harshly, "why do we need to have a special dinner just to say goodbye?"
Finally he hung up on his overbearing sibling. Janine quickly joined him on the footpath in front of the door to the flat they had been waiting to enter.
"He's just around the corner. He'll be here in a tick," she said of the tardy landlord. "Was that your brother?"
"Yes. Mycroft."
"Mike?"
"—roft."
"Trying to get out of dinner, are you?"
Sherlock smiled grimly. "My parents are leaving for the U.S. It's for a line dancing thing in… in… somewhere in the region."
Janine chuckled. "Seriously?"
"They're leaving from London at the end of the next week, and they want to have a farewell dinner. They'll only be going for a month. I don't see why it's a big deal. I was abroad for two years and didn't spend a minute missing them."
"Oh, Sherl. They're your parents!"
"Yes, my thoughts exactly. I have better things to do with my time."
Janine affectionately linked her arm through Sherlock's as the landlord appeared around the corner. Once the inspection was complete, Sherlock was able to reassure Janine that her new landlord wasn't a pervert, but his diet included too much salt, and he would die of a heart attack within the next five... no, three, years.
Her accommodation sorted, Janine and Sherlock parted ways, with Sherlock only giving her a peck on the cheek. Well, it was broad daylight. Janine made promises to call Sherlock once the paperwork had all gone through and she had the keys early in the week. Perhaps they could celebrate with a bottle of wine at hers, she had suggested.
While he walked toward the high street in a bid to find another taxi, Sherlock decided to bite the bullet and ring Rose. How did they get to here? Prolonged silences, dancing around topics of importance, images of past sex acts with former clients... okay, that one wasn't typical in many relationships.
Sherlock listened while Rose's phone rang out then switched to her messaging service. He hung up. She'd see a missed call from him and at least know that he had tried to get in contact with her. He wondered what Rose had made of all the little clues he'd left behind.
As he crossed the busy street to hail a cab from the other side, his phone rang. His stomach sank in disappointment when he glanced at the caller ID. It was Janine.
"So, I've well and truly over-stayed my welcome here," she said, speaking in a low voice as if she didn't want to be overheard. "I was wondering if I could stay at yours for a couple of nights? Tonight and Monday night?"
Sherlock's stomach roiled in horror... for a split second anyway. He immediately answered with an indecisive, "Ah..." then all of his faculties went into the careful consideration of the impact this decision would have on both his private life and the case. A couple of nights in intimate conversation with Janine in front of his fireplace: very conducive to finding out Magnussen's schedule and where he stored important documents—letters between an underage girl and a respected gentleman, for example.
Rose need never know, he thought. And she didn't visit him in his flat any more anyway. It was a low risk situation that may yield high results.
Decision made in the space of a few hundredths of a second, Sherlock replied, "Of course."
