Chapter 57 – Everything Else is Transport
Rose didn't return Sherlock's missed call from that afternoon, and any thoughts of going to see her at Leinster Gardens were dismissed from his mind now that Janine was going to stay the night.
Two nights.
It was very rare that he and Rose didn't share a Sunday together. Sherlock tried to quell the churning in his gut about what this case may be doing to the aspects of their relationship he'd come to enjoy and rely upon. And he hadn't told Rose about finding the photos of her and Garvie on one of Garvie's old phone handsets on the Thursday night that he had terrorised the MP.
Sherlock had remembered during his visit to the Rockwell South constituency office that Rose had told him she would regularly delete the photos Garvie took whenever the MP had passed out at the end of their sessions from all of the drugs and booze he'd consumed. She would be so upset to learn that they had still been accessible to those who possessed the technology to retrieve deleted data such as this.
Fortunately, Sherlock was able to determine that the data hadn't been accessed since 2012, when Rose had deleted them. He had made the mistake of checking that the images were, in fact, of Rose. And that had been his undoing, and the reason why he had trussed up John Garvie and had threatened to castrate him with the man's own letter opener. Luckily, for Mr Garvie, Sherlock had overcome that particular cocaine-fuelled act of aggression and had come to his senses. Instead he sought to search the office for evidence of dodgy dealings.
Sherlock had half an hour before Janine was due, so he tidied up his flat a little, taking care to hide the file on Garvie's corrupt dealings in a better place other than underneath a pile of papers on his desk.
When Janine arrived, Sherlock made tea and polite conversation. During a conversation about sharing the bed again, Sherlock declined this time, stating that he didn't know if he could trust himself. He was speaking the truth once more, but was happy to mislead Janine with another meaning entirely now that he had kissed her. He intended spending two nights on his sofa, if he slept at all.
Sherlock told her he was going to spend a few hours at Bart's hospital, undertaking research. He needed to 'acquire' additional equipment to add to Rose's druggy friend's makeshift lab and he wanted to check the stocks in the pathology department at Bart's.
With Janine assuring him she'd order in her own dinner, Sherlock left for the hospital. As it was a Sunday night, he didn't expect to encounter many, if any, staff members. Happily, he found what he was looking for. He was suitably startled, therefore, when a voice spoke behind him as he was closing up a cardboard box full of equipment and chemicals he had acquired.
"Stealing again?"
Inwardly, he jumped; outwardly, he calmly turned and gifted his favourite pathologist with an affectionate, if slightly phony, smile.
"Ah, Molly."
In one glance, Sherlock determined that Molly was looking tired, and a little... upset. Was she at work on a Sunday night because she'd had an argument with her fiancé? Her attire gave the impression she'd dressed in a hurry, thrown a jacket over whatever she'd been lounging around her flat in. Sherlock had stayed at Molly's now and again, in years gone by, turning up unannounced, declaring her flat one of his 'bolt holes,' so he was well aware what type of clothing she typically relaxed in.
"What's in the box, Sherlock?" Molly asked, folding her arms in front of her.
"Just... a few things. Updating my stocks at home. You know..."
"May I see?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Just the usual, Molly."
"Yes, I know," she said humourlessly. Yes, definitely a fight with the fiancé. "But I'd like to know what stocks have been depleted so I don't get any nasty surprises when I need formic acid at three in the morning and there isn't any."
With a sigh, Sherlock placed the box down onto a counter. He watched, heart-rate slightly accelerated, as Molly Hooper cast an expert eye over its contents.
"Hydrochloric acid," she said, examining the label on one bottle. She peered past the Pyrex beakers, graduated cylinders, and glass stir rods and read another. "Ammonia."
"Both items necessary for a home chemistry lab," Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.
But clearly Molly wasn't in the mood for frivolities.
"And both those items are needed in the acid-base extraction method used to purify cocaine."
"Molly..."
"What's going on, Sherlock?"
"As you know, hydrochloric acid is quite often used to neutralise—"
"You know what I'm talking about," Molly said through narrow eyes.
Sherlock dropped his flippant attitude. He rearranged his features so that his expression matched Molly's.
"Yes, and quite frankly I'm just a little insulted." He closed up the box lest Molly spy the small box of syringes underneath the filter papers. "During my stint abroad in foreign countries, I managed to look after myself like a grown up. Returning here to find that everyone had moved on—and quite rightly so, I should add—it took me a little getting used to. Adjusting to civilian life wasn't easy, but I managed to do that without the aid of mind-altering chemicals. I've just spent five months organising the Watsons' wedding, a feat which would've driven any ordinary person to drink. And now here I am, my email inbox overflowing with client requests, doing what I do best—working on cases—and it's only now that you decide to step in and question my frame of mind."
Molly had opened and closed her mouth several times during Sherlock's mini-rant.
Finally, she said, "Sherlock, we do have precedent."
"When I'm idle and bored," Sherlock replied, his gaze piercing Molly with all the conviction he could muster. "But never on a case."
Molly's face softened a little, so Sherlock took that as his cue to leave.
"And besides," he said, tucking the box underneath his arm, "these days, all the cool kids are washing their cocaine with acetone."
He winked, then swept through the door from the pathology lab without a backward glance.
He felt only mildly guilty at lying to—or at the very least, misleading—Molly Hooper. He quickly dismissed that emotion as swiftly as it had manifested itself. He had work to do, but Molly could quite possibly raise the alarm, making the cavalry, in the form of a pompous arse, come running—or strolling—into Baker Street, umbrella in hand. No matter. Sherlock would set up an innocent-looking titration experiment in his kitchen in 221B, while the real laboratory would be bubbling away in some seedy makeshift kitchen in east London.
Sherlock returned from Bart's much earlier than he had intended. Janine was still awake and reading, stretching out along the sofa. Sherlock found it odd to see her dressed in her nightie and dressing gown, but it was infinitely preferable to her wearing one of his shirts.
He made them tea, then settled into his armchair to read. Before too long, Janine moved to the armchair opposite. Sherlock gave her a warm smile and closed up his book. Let the cozy interrogation begin.
The next morning, Sherlock was up early, way before Janine. He decided to have a long soak in the bath while he decided what he was going to achieve that week. He was just retrieving his shampoo from the shower shelf while the bath was filling, when Janine boldly opened the door to the bathroom from the bedroom.
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed, then swiftly shut the door. "I'm so sorry!" she called through the door. "I thought you were in the living room!"
Sherlock hung his head and sighed.
John was always telling him to lock the bloody door, and he did when he used the toilet. Not so much when he was showering or shaving. Why would he? He'd lived alone for long enough and besides, what did people have against the nude form? Everybody had one underneath their clothing, even the King of England, and Sherlock had been fully prepared to dump his bedsheet and parade about naked in His Majesty's house.
"Why are you acting so embarrassed?" Sherlock had asked John through the door during one such bathroom encounter. "I'm the one who's naked."
"Well, why aren't you embarrassed?" John had retorted.
"Because I have nothing to be embarrassed about."
Sherlock said nothing in response to Janine and continued drawing his bath. Settling in, his mind had already drifted to Rose, and when he would smell her delightful soap and shampoo on her person again. He had squirted bath gel into the water and it had worked itself into a nice mountain of foam. Bubbles. Perfect for blocking out the world, and John Watson's nagging specifically. He recalled those times fondly: John yelling through the door to hurry up, while Sherlock sank lower and lower under the water until his ears were full of bubbles and he could no longer hear his annoying flatmate.
But, hang on. That voice sounded feminine.
Sherlock lifted his head above the water again, and wiped the excess suds from his ears.
"...have to get to work," she was saying.
Oh. Janine.
"Sorry, what?"
"I need my toiletry bag. I want to brush my teeth so I can leave. I have to get to work."
Sherlock sighed and ran his hands over his head, slicking his hair back with suds that immediately popped underneath his palms.
"Come in, if you like. I don't mind," he called out.
The door opened a crack. Janine's voice floated through it.
"Are y'sure? I mean, aren't you in the bath?"
"Yes."
"But..."
Sherlock tutted. "If you're worried about my modesty, there's really no need."
Sherlock closed his eyes when he heard Janine enter, and he leant his head on the back of the bathtub, resting his arms along the sides.
"I'll just get..." she said, her voice thick with apology. "...take it to the kitchen sink," she added, murmuring. Sherlock could hear her retrieving her toiletry bag and dropping items into it.
"You don't have to leave," Sherlock drawled disinterestedly. "I won't embarrass you again. I'm well-covered by bubbles."
The rummaging behind him paused momentarily, and he knew Janine was taking that moment to check him out. All she'd see above the water would be his head, arms, bare shoulders and chest, his kneecaps, because he had to bend his legs a little, and his long, slender toes. The rest of her silence would be dedicated to using her imagination for what lay beneath the bubbles.
"Well, if you're not bothered…" she said.
"Why would I be bothered?"
"I did just see you naked."
"And, again, why would I be bothered?" he said, keeping his eyes closed.
"Most people would—"
"I'm not most people."
"No," Janine responded resignedly. "I guess you're not."
Sherlock continued his quiet contemplation as Janine began brushing her teeth. After a fashion, Sherlock felt he should offer some further explanation for his way of thinking.
"You're embarrassed because your own sexual experiences with a wide variety of men, I imagine, has led you to view my naked body in a sexualised way, despite a lifetime of being exposed to the male nude form in school science texts, various media formats, including television shows and advertisements, and the undressed mannequin in the shop window." He paused while Janine ran the tap to rinse. "And you think I should feel flustered at having been exposed in front of you. Quite the contrary. I never feel embarrassed for simply existing without clothing."
Sherlock was faced with silence while he assumed Janine was finishing up.
"Okay. I get the picture," she said eventually, and she moved where Sherlock could see her. "Quite a few males I've known, though, don't share your confidence in their naked bodies. And comparing yours to theirs, I can see why you're so uninhibited."
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes having detected a hint of humour in Janine's tone.
"Comparing my body to theirs?"
"I didn't say your body."
Sherlock initially frowned until Janine raised one mischievous eyebrow.
"Oh," he said, tutting and rolling his eyes. "You're referring to the fantasy that size matters, or some rubbish."
"Why would it be a fantasy?" Janine chided him. "I've had practical experience in the area."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Janine, and scrutinised her from head to toe.
"Mmm, I don't doubt it," he remarked, as if he could read her precise sexual history in just one glance. "But the problem lies within the expression itself. A man with a small penis has been led to believe all his life that he couldn't possibly be any good in bed, therefore he performs abysmally. Self-fulfilling prophecy."
"Or, the small-penis man tries to overcompensate with a lot of enthusiasm and ends up jack-hammering and getting nowhere," Janine volunteered pleasantly.
Sherlock's eyes widened at the visual she had given him, then looked away, saying, "Okay, then."
Janine laughed his reaction.
"So, where do you lie, Sherl?" she asked. "Do you prove the expression, or disprove it?"
"What do you think," he asked, looking up at Janine and narrowing his eyes in the issuing of a challenge, "given what you know about me?"
Janine folded her arms in front of her and maintained eye contact with Sherlock.
"Hmm. Well, from what I know about you—a little arrogant and conceited..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling and tutted.
"… For good reason, though. You usually back that up with knowledge and skills." Janine narrowed her own eyes, as if she was carefully considering her assessment. "I'd say, you'd boast about being very good, and y'probably are...but..."
Sherlock raised his brows in keen interest.
"...but you've already said you don't bother fulfilling your own sexual needs, so if you ever have, you're likely to be inexperienced and therefore pretty lousy."
Sherlock tore his gaze from Janine, and nodded imperceptibly.
"Good assessment," he said, drawing his knees up. He suddenly pressed his hands on either side of the bath and raised himself to a standing position. "A well-thought out—"
"Jesus, Sherl!"
Janine turned her back on Sherlock, and raised her eyes to the ceiling.
"Oh," Sherlock said, completely forgetting where he was again as water and suds ran down his lithe, muscular form. "And now we're back to feeling embarrassed. Could you hand me that towel, please?"
Sherlock had been carried away with the conversation, which had taken him away from the incident that had started it in the first place: unintentionally exposing himself to Janine.
Janine grabbed the towel from the rail in front of her and passed it back to Sherlock without turning around.
"Thank you," he said, sheepishly. He wasn't embarrassed about being naked. They'd already established that. He just felt foolish at losing himself in the conversation.
He had wrapped the towel around his hips and was just stepping out of the bathtub when Janine said, "Are y'decent now?"
"Yes."
Janine turned around to face him, faint traces of amusement gracing her features.
"So, was I correct?" she asked, now looking up at Sherlock as he stood in close proximity, beads of water dotting his bare chest.
"Your initial assessment was correct," he said, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "I am very good. But your addendum may have been true at one point, too. It hasn't been the case for quite some time. But you're right." While the rest of his statements had been the truth, Sherlock hesitated for a split second before he spoke the lie. "I really don't bother with it."
"Well, there's only one way to find out for myself, isn't there?" she said, with a tilt of her head.
Sherlock neutralised his expression. "There really isn't." Janine's face brightened into a smile. Before she could hint at anything else, Sherlock added, "Don't you have to get to work now?"
A laugh escaped Janine and she turned and exited into the bedroom. She sank onto the bed and began putting on her heels as Sherlock shut the bathroom door and heaved out a sigh.
He was an idiot. Whatever his own thoughts on nudity were, this just wasn't appropriate behaviour when flat-sharing with a woman who wasn't your lover. John would argue that it wasn't appropriate behaviour with anybody, but the man was a soldier and a doctor. He should've been used to that sort of thing.
Even with Rose, Sherlock would cover himself with a towel when walking from the bathroom to her bedroom to retrieve his pyjamas. But that wasn't a case of modesty, it was because he invariably had an erection, and he didn't want Rose to think he was overly keen.
"Are you fucking kidding me," he muttered to his penis, as it began stir at the thought of Rose waiting in her bed for him to return from the shower.
"Did you say something?" Janine called from the bedroom.
"Nope! Just couldn't find my... shaving cream. Everything's fine."
"Well, I'm going now," she said through the door. "Are y'decent?"
"No."
Janine laughed, then he heard her heels on the passageway outside the kitchen.
"Okay, well, see you tonight then," she called back.
Sherlock's shoulders drooped in relief when he heard her footsteps die away on the stairs. He released his grip on the towel then used it to dry himself. Now that he could begin to think clearly, he decided that there were benefits to be gained from this little incident.
If he kept pushing Janine away during random moments of intimacy, she would tire of him fairly quickly. She was the kind of woman who actively sought casual encounters whenever she had 'down time.' If she had designs on Sherlock—and all evidence pointed to this fact—then clearly he was preventing her from having those sexual encounters, and she would want something physical to happen fairly soon. He had to give the impression, at least, that this was a possibility at some time in the near future. Sherlock was confident that the case would be over long before then.
After he dressed, he grabbed the box of supplies he'd acquired from Bart's and headed off to east London—Canning Town, specifically. It was probably far too early for some, Sherlock thought in reflection as he unpacked the various laboratory equipment and chemicals in Wiggins' kitchen.
"And don't let any of your mates touch this stuff," he'd instructed a bleary-eyed Wiggins. "On second thoughts, do you have a cabinet with a child-proof lock on it?"
Leaving Rose's friend with the supplies and the promise to bring back more, Sherlock returned to Baker Street, making a couple of calls along the way. One was to Rose, who didn't answer—she probably didn't want to talk to him while she was at work, he surmised...hoped; and the other to DI Lestrade about the file on Garvie.
He assumed Lestrade would turn up at some point but he wouldn't wait around for him. Sherlock really needed to finish his equipment acquisition from Bart's, but he decided not to visit again until the early hours of the morning when Molly Hooper would almost certainly not be present.
At some stage during the week, Sherlock would need Wiggins to assist in the cooking of something for a special occasion. Curiously, the names the young man kept telling Sherlock to call him never seemed to resemble whatever it was that Rose called him. However, brief conversations with the stoner had led Sherlock to conclude that the man knew his way around a chemistry lab.
There was a problem with Sherlock Holmes being high on cocaine: most people didn't notice. His brother would though, and so would Rose. Possibly Molly Hooper and John Watson. More likely Mary Watson. But this group of people wasn't the intended audience for his planned pantomime. Janine Hawkins and/or Magnussen's spies were. They were the ones who needed to witness Sherlock Holmes' deterioration of mental acuity and conclude that the Consulting Detective was no serious threat to their boss. Sherlock Holmes thought better when high on cocaine, he knew that. So his drug of choice could no longer be his favoured stimulant.
So if he and Wiggins spent all day in the kitchen on Tuesday, he could possibly be ready to see Janine at her new place that night. She had suggested they celebrate with wine. Sherlock was determined to be high on mind-altering substances. But not that cut-to-shit crap he'd insufflated last week. He'd want a better quality, and even then, they'd spend time purifying it. And not just the cocaine. Sherlock thought Wiggins would be able to help him with a recipe customised to suit his needs.
It was such a tight deadline, so Sherlock was actually relieved when Janine received a call from her boss on Monday night. They were to travel to Berlin early the next morning and wouldn't be back in England until Friday night.
"Sherl, would you be a love and collect the keys for me tomorrow? I'll grab them from you at the end of the week. I'll even cook for you. How about that?"
He'd readily agreed while he was preparing their evening cups of tea, and received a couple of soft kisses on the lips from Janine in appreciation. When she eased back, he masked his feeling of indifference with one of alarmed confusion.
"I don't understand what's happening here," he said, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
Janine's brows rose in sympathy and she lightly touched his chest.
"Oh, Sherl! Haven't you ever been in a relationship before?"
Sherlock took a step sideways, feigning a growing discomfort.
"Is that what this is?"
"It's whatever you want it to be."
At her words, Sherlock thought he'd lighten the mood before it got too heavy.
With a barely restrained smile, he said, "I'd want it to be a seemingly unsolvable murder. A conundrum wrapped in an enigma."
Janine chuckled lightly and narrowed the gap between them once more.
"You are such a wag, Sherlock Holmes." She pressed a kiss to his lips once more, then whispered, "And I promise to be very gentle."
"With what?"
"With taking this to the next level."
Sherlock furrowed his brow. He knew how ignorance looked. He saw it reflected on the faces of the ordinary almost every day.
"There are levels?" he asked.
Another tiny laugh escaped Janine before she said, "I'll take you through each one, so don't worry. I can't believe you're acting all nervous like this while you're fully dressed," she said, running the flat of her palm over his chest. "Just this morning—"
"The difference is in our intentions," he said, maintaining eye contact with Janine until she sought to narrow the gap between them.
With the curiosity of a marine biologist observing the courting rituals of the mantis shrimp, Sherlock detached himself emotionally from Janine's wet kisses. His lips were parted slightly, pliable, not entirely unwelcoming, but he barely participated in this moment of intimacy.
He was just about to press his own kiss to her lips to punctuate the end of this nonsense, when the front door to the street below slammed shut. The tiny, almost imperceptible tap that preceded the careful footsteps heralded exactly who Sherlock's visitor was. The fleeting look of alarm on his face was genuine this time.
"My brother," he murmured, straightening up.
In the time it took most people to blink, and Mycroft Holmes to tread that first step, Sherlock had already determined that this visit had come at a most inopportune time. If his elder brother discovered a woman in Sherlock's flat, a woman who was currently dressed in a nightie and dressing gown, then she would receive the full force of the British Government's sticky-beakiness. Janine's identity and occupation, and therefore her connection to Charles Augustus Magnussen would result in Mycroft interfering in some way. And given that Sherlock suspected Mycroft had attended Magnussen's committee hearing a month ago, there was no doubt that his brother would be well aware of the reputation of the media giant. Mycroft Holmes was perfectly capable of putting two and two together. Whether the answer equalled 'four' or 'Pi to the seventh decimal place,' was yet to be determined. Sherlock must keep Janine hidden at all costs.
"If you wouldn't mind," Sherlock quietly and urgently bid Janine, gently pressing on her elbow and indicating his bedroom.
"Oh?" Janine queried, but she quickly caught on and hurried through the kitchen.
Sherlock followed her along the passageway to his bedroom.
Holding the door to prevent Janine closing it behind her, he said, "Leave it open. I'll explain later."
Sherlock quickly opened the door to the landing from the kitchen, then assumed a casual air as he took his position in front of the tea things again. He placed both hands on the tea cups, as if he had just placed them on the counter and said, without turning around, "Tea, Mycroft?"
"Dinner is Friday night," his brother said without preamble, strolling across the threshold and ignoring Sherlock's offer. "They're flying out early on Saturday morning. Do be there, won't you?"
Sherlock wearily turned to face Mycroft.
"You came all this way just to tell me the same thing we've already discussed on the phone?"
"Our conversation hadn't finished. You hung up on me. So... Friday."
"Ah... no. I have plans."
Mycroft's eyes became beady. "Change them."
"Look, this is ridiculous. I don't do dinner with—"
"They're flying half-way around the world."
"So?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms in front of him.
"Anything could happen."
The detective-genius narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Are you threatening our parents with some seemingly random act of terrorism?"
Mycroft gaped in astonishment at his little brother's outrageous suggestion.
"Don't be absurd. I'm merely reminding you that the world is full of dark and terrible forces—"
"Ah, the East Wind."
"... as well as breeding unfortunate circumstances and events. If anything should happen to our parents while they're abroad at their line dancing convention, you'll be most upset that you didn't get to say goodbye."
"That won't be the reason I'd be upset."
"Sherlock..."
"Look, just pass on my apologies. Write it down in your little brown notebook: I'm sorry I won't be able to attend the last dinner we may ever eat together—Sherlock Holmes, your favourite son."
"Sherlock, don't be so insensitive!"
"You're right. Add one of those little x's. It means a kiss, apparently. Ordinary people like that sort of thing."
"They are our parents. Why can't you act like a responsible son for once."
"Me? Responsible son? You're the one planning a dinner in honour of their potential deaths."
"Oh, grow up!"
"Now that takes me back. I hope you don't say things like that to the ambassador to North Korea."
Mycroft shook his head a little, as if to dismiss Sherlock's words. He refocussed his attention to the rest of the flat, then idly strolled into the living room. Sherlock held his breath. He wondered if Mycroft could detect the presence of a woman within fifty paces. He watched as his brother carefully scrutinised the room. Sherlock silently dared the man to make the correct deduction. He would be most impressed if he did.
"Keeping yourself busy then..." Mycroft said, redirecting his gaze back to Sherlock, "… with clients?"
So the pompous git noticed something, but had deduced incorrectly.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, turning back to the tea things.
"Do you have many?"
"Yeah, loads."
Mycroft was silent for a moment or two which meant he was thinking and calculating, and that wasn't a good thing in Sherlock's opinion.
"So business is still booming then, even in John Watson's absence."
Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Apparently, he's not the drawcard."
Mycroft chuckled lightly without the conviction of amusement in his throat.
"When was the last time you saw him?"
Here it comes, thought Sherlock. Brotherly concern. How irritating.
"Oh... three weeks... maybe."
"Three weeks? That's quite a stretch."
Sherlock immediately resented the faux-casualness to his brother's voice. Mycroft Holmes never made small talk.
"I was dead for two years," Sherlock said turning to Mycroft and keeping his tone even. "I'm sure that by now he knows how to occupy his time without me."
"Indeed," Mycroft remarked.
And now he's agreeing with me. Weren't we having an argument a few minutes ago? Let's get back to that before you start hugging me.
But Mycroft's silence was even more alarming.
Eventually the elder Holmes ventured, his tone heavy in disapproval, "And do you still see that..."
Sherlock froze before he made a concerted effort to start stirring the tea again. He was curious to ascertain the expression his brother currently wore, so he braved a glance in Mycroft's direction. The man had that bitter look of someone who already knew the sound of the word they were about to say, and found it distasteful to their ears.
"No," Sherlock replied, letting his brother off the hook. That... what? Prostitute? Sex worker? Or was Mycroft about to say, That delightful young woman who knows you so intimately that she professes to love you... yet won't answer your phone calls. That woman?
Sherlock's heart immediately felt the burden of heart-break. His limbs also grew heavy and an unbearable pressure materialised behind his eyes.
Rose.
Why doesn't she ring?
"Sherlock..."
Oh, for God's sake...
"When there's a lull between cases..."
...please shoot me...
"...and an absence of those you call... friends..."
...never a sniper around when you need one...
"...know that I'll be there for you."
Sherlock bowed his head in defeat.
Go away.
An uncomfortable, yet not too unfamiliar, silence stretched before them.
"Do try to be there on Friday night, won't you? The usual place."
Sherlock forced irritation into his voice. "If I'm there, I'm there. If I'm not, I never intended to be."
He set his jaw, ready for his brother's retort, but was surprised that the silence was punctuated by the light click of the kitchen door closing.
Sherlock hated it when Mycroft acted agreeable. It meant that his brother thought Sherlock was nearing a 'danger night.' Did Molly Hooper contact him after all? Sherlock had laughed when John Watson had questioned him about the meaning behind Mycroft's warning.
"There's no such thing as a danger night," Sherlock had said to John in response all those years ago. "It's a fairy tale my brother made up to scare small children."
At the time, Sherlock remembered thinking that it was more accurate to describe it as a danger week. He never relapsed for just one night. He didn't volunteer that information to John though.
As he stayed where he was, leaning heavily on the kitchen counter, his thoughts drifted back to Rose. Interesting that his brother had to ask him about her. That would mean Sherlock's efforts to surreptitiously navigate to and from Rose's flat went undetected by his brother's spies as well.
But why didn't she call? Every minute of every hour of every day since Saturday that he hadn't spoken to her had added another hairline fracture to his already fragile heart. And when his heart beat erratically, like it was doing now, his lungs reacted in sympathy. His breathing grew shallow and his throat began to constrict.
"Sherl? Has he gone?"
She drew closer and Sherlock wanted the ground to swallow him up whole.
"Did you upset you?"
Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and willed himself to calm the fuck down. Janine curled her arms around one of his, and Sherlock was momentarily confused. Rose always did that. This was Rose's way of comforting him. Janine had no right to assume that role.
"Big brother's are all bastards. It's their birthright," she said, chuckling and pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "No matter how old y'are, they always treat you like a child."
Sherlock looked down at Janine, his mind calculating. She'd caught him in a vulnerable position. It was time to play up on it. Now what stories could he make up about his childhood and having Mycroft Holmes as a big brother? He couldn't tell her the truth; she'd never believe him.
Sherlock spent most of Tuesday in the Canning Town drug lab, after picking up Janine's keys and dropping her things off at her new flat. Wiggins was an excellent chemist and Sherlock felt confident that the man would succeed in producing exactly what Sherlock needed for this coming Friday night. He intended being high on this experimental concoction when Janine arrived back in London.
The Consulting Detective returned to his flat just briefly to meet Lestrade. The Scotland Yard D.I. had finally called Sherlock back and had agreed to pick up the file on the dodgy dealings of a Member of Parliament.
"Did this come from your brother?" Lestrade asked, as he thumbed through the papers.
"No."
"Because this won't result in just a relegation to the backbench. This guy could very well be charged with a criminal offence."
"I'm quite aware of that Detective Inspector."
Lestrade frowned as he closed up the file. He sighed heavily, then said, "Right, then. I'll keep you posted. It may take a few days to go through all this with the bods upstairs."
"Take your time. He isn't going anywhere," Sherlock intoned.
Sherlock left Baker Street on foot at the same time that Greg Lestrade did. He needed to return to east London to supervise the lab but he decided to walk a bit first, so he could smoke and try contacting Rose again. This was getting ridiculous now.
He was quite surprised when she answered the phone, and concerned that she sounded pitiful.
"Rose?"
"Oh. Sherlock."
"Are you all right?"
She seemed to take a lot of time to respond, but finally she sniffed loudly and said, "I've got the flu. I feel like crap."
Sherlock sighed in relief. These days he imagined she was on a permanent high in his absence.
"Do you want me to come over?"
"No. I've taken drugs. I'm in bed."
"What?"
Rose exhaled rather audibly into the phone. "Cold and flu medication," she said exasperatedly, as if she knew exactly what Sherlock had been thinking. "I'm going to sleep now."
"Wait, Rose."
"What?" she asked irritably.
"When can I see you?"
Sherlock became anxious as the seconds ticked by in silence.
"Why?"
What sort of question was that?
"Because... we haven't seen each other since Saturday," he replied, his heart sinking just a little.
"I don't know," Rose muttered. Sherlock assumed she was now lying down due to her breathy responses. "Maybe this weekend."
She was pushing him away again. Sherlock's mind was just one more indifferent response away from panic mode.
"I've phoned the cleaners," he told her, wanting... needing...to keep her on the line. "They can come back as early as Thursday, otherwise they're not available again until next Tuesday. When's your inspection?"
"Monday."
"Okay. Thursday it is then."
"Fucking hell. Does it have to be?"
There was no pleasing this woman any more. Sherlock stopped before he reached Marylebone Road. The amount of traffic was making it harder to hear Rose, although her swearing was quite audible.
"What's wrong with Thursday?" he asked.
"I get to sleep in on Thursdays now. I've swapped shifts with That Lazy Fuck..." Gus, Sherlock remembered, Rose's back-office nemesis. "...since I work late on Wednesday nights, counselling," she finished.
"Don't you want your ceiling cleaned before your inspection?"
Sherlock listened intently while Rose said nothing at all. He turned away from Marylebone Road in case Rose had said something on her death bed and he had failed to hear.
"Don't worry about it," she finally responded. "I'll clean the fucking thing myself on the weekend."
"Rose," he said, exhaling heavily. "Don't be ridiculous."
Rose didn't answer, in fact, her silence was even more pronounced than before. Sherlock drew his phone away from his ear and checked the screen. His heart thumped erratically when he saw that she had ended the call.
"You didn't say goodbye!" he said viciously at his handset. He swiftly redialled Rose's number. What was happening between them?
"Rose, you didn't say goodbye!" he repeated to her. He heard her sniff again, but it was less like a 'I've got the flu' kind of sniff and more like an 'I'm crying into the phone and I don't want my boyfriend to know' sniff.
Sherlock stopped walking and hung his head.
"I'm coming over."
"No," she croaked.
"Why not?"
"Because I want to go to sleep early and I don't want to be up all night dealing with you."
"Dealing with me?"
He heard Rose sob again. Now she was really crying. Good fucking job, Sherlock! But the sound was abruptly cut off, which mean Rose had failed to say goodbye again.
Sherlock strode determinedly back down Baker Street, breathing heavily, until he reached his door, then he about-faced and walked swiftly in the opposite direction. Extended pacing.
When he decided that he had calmed down just a little, he stopped and rang Rose's number again.
"Please don't hang up without saying goodbye," he said, keeping his voice light and even. "I have a plan, and it's a good one. It will solve everybody's problems and keep everyone happy."
Rose was silent as she waited, but Sherlock checked the screen to make sure she was still there. He didn't have a plan. He urged his brain to come up with one as pedestrians bundled past and taxis squealed in delight at reaching the kerb.
Come on. Think!
"My plan is this..." He tapped his head with the heel of his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. "Okay, this is what we'll do..." He checked the screen once more. Rose was still there, waiting, listening. "You'll go to work tomorrow, and go to counselling in the evening. That's good, so far."
"And?"
"And... then..." He stared at a female pedestrian, hoping her and her over-sized handbag would lend him inspiration. "… you can come over to Baker Street."
"What?"
"Yes!" Sherlock agreed, ecstatic that he now had a plan. "I'll meet you at your counselling office, then lead you on a roundabout route back to Baker Street so nobody can follow us. You stay over, but give your keys to Ms Small tomorrow morning so she can let the cleaners in on Thursday."
"But—"
"This is the best bit, Rose! You can have the day off on Thursday!"
Rose was silent again. Sherlock quickly checked the screen then continued telling her his now brilliant plan as he paced backwards and forwards along a small section of Baker Street.
"You deserve a day off, Rose. Clearly you're run down and you need me to run you a warm bath. And you can soak in there for hours. I'll bring you tea and crumpets. And if you find yourself short of cash next week, I can lend you the money. And don't worry, I'm keeping a list of all the money you owe me, including the cleaning bill, and you can pay me back when you're a fully qualified forensic psychologist. So it won't be like I'm paying you for sex at all."
Rose sobbed out a laugh, and Sherlock's heart soared. He had her; he knew it.
Just say the word though, Rose. Please.
For us.
The world passed him by, oblivious to his inner turmoil—the world in which he once saw beauty in the logical and sense in cold hard reason, and one where he'd ridiculed the empathetic and denigrated the love-struck. Nothing made sense any more. Whatever this was, he was rendered incapable of focussing on anything other than her next words, which would either strengthen or incapacitate him.
Say Yes, Rose.
"Okay."
.
