Chapter 58 - Just the Two of Us Against the Rest of the World
How exhilarating to be able to walk the seedier streets of London, confident in her own safety. It did help that she had her own personal bodyguard lurking in the shadows somewhere. It was a game of cat and mouse, although Rose wasn't quite sure whether she was the cat or the mouse.
Sherlock would text her directions—cross this street, walk to the end of that alley, squeeze through the gap in the chain-link fence, and occasionally, take the next night bus past three stops—all of which she'd dutifully follow.
Now and again, the man himself would appear silhouetted against a street light. Rose would quicken her pace toward him, before he stepped out of the light and enveloped her in his warm embrace. Her journey was dotted with impatient snogging in closed shop doorways, contrasted with the occasional gentle tug on her hand from behind. Sherlock would then gift her with the most tender of kisses. Preceding some of these was an intermittent evil chuckle that floated through the darkness. The latter, she didn't appreciate.
Rose never knew whether Sherlock would lie in wait up ahead or be observing her from a discreet distance behind. She was sure he was tailing her when she finally approached the door of 221 Baker Street. Upon letting herself inside, she was suddenly thrust up against the wall of the entranceway, and thoroughly welcomed by the resident Consulting Detective's enthusiastic kiss.
It had been one hour and ten minutes of extended foreplay, navigating through darkened London streets, out of the eyes of the city's CCTV networks. But a flight of stairs, a landing and a threshold were the only remaining hurdles to overcome. Finally, without restraint, the couple were tearing away at each other's clothing just inside the living room doorway.
Rose's intermittent thought throughout the whole episode was why did she need dinner and coffee in public places to enjoy her relationship with Sherlock Holmes? Surely this was more thrilling and unique to them. But the reality of her life would creep back in—the shame of her past occupation and the hunger of the press for headlines. And Sherlock Holmes was a sometime celebrity in that regard.
So she would stick to her original plan: enjoy their last day and night together; give themselves one more fond memory, and break up with Sherlock before the weekend.
Sherlock watched as the jet of water from the tap turned the bath gel into a lather. He worked it vigorously with one hand, before leaving the side of the bath. After drying his hand on a towel, he stood in the doorway to his bedroom. A rare ventricular ectopic beat resounded in his chest at the sight of Rose fast asleep in his bed.
Relief had flooded through him during their late night sojourn through the city to Baker Street. He could tell Rose had been enjoying the journey as much as he. Sex back in the flat may have been sudden and urgent, but he had Rose laughing throughout, so surely that had been a good experience for them both.
He regarded her sleeping form for a moment, before the sudden urge took hold to wake her with light kisses about her face as she had delivered to him on many occasions.
Sherlock left his post by the door and made his way to the far side of the bed. After taking a seat beside Rose's inert body, he leant over her and pressed his first kiss to her forehead. Rose immediately stirred. He placed another light kiss on one cheek, then another on the corner of her mouth. He drew back, giving himself space to observe the effects of his actions.
Rose's eyelids fluttered open, and Sherlock's heart warmed to see the beginnings of a smile on her lips.
"Morning," he said, in a low drawl.
Rose's smiled widened. "Hello." She stretched a little, taking in her surroundings, then sunk lower onto the pillow as if to resettle herself. Resting a light hand on Sherlock's arm, she added, with a morning croak in her voice, "I like waking up in your bedroom."
Sherlock's chest swelled, and the corners of his lips stretched wide.
"I like having you wake up in my bedroom, too."
He bent down and gently brushed Rose's lips with his. Her lips were soft and warm from sleep, yet so giving. He resisted the urge to press his desires onto her just yet.
But when he carefully eased back, Rose asked, "May I go back to sleep now?"
Sherlock didn't think that was a good idea, and he let Rose know via the two creases that appeared in his brow.
"I'm running a bath for you."
"That's lovely," Rose replied, closing her eyes again. She rolled to her side, and exhaled deeply, signalling one who wasn't far from sleep. "Let me know when it's ready."
Sherlock hovered for a moment, in two minds about prodding her awake again. He still wanted Rose to wake up and hang out with him, but in the end, all he decided to do was to press one last kiss to her temple.
"It's almost ready," he said in a low voice. "I'll make you a cup of tea."
Rose hummed agreeably, but kept her eyes firmly shut. Sherlock was pleased to see a hint of a smile on her face still. Satisfied that she had woken in a good mood, Sherlock rose from the bed and made for the door.
"Sherlock."
Rose had rolled onto her back and fully completed the smile she had begun earlier. "Will you be joining me?"
It wasn't really a question; her raised eyebrow expressed that this was an invitation. And a promise for something more.
"I'll let you get settled in first," he replied, trying desperately to ignore the heat pooling down below. "And I'll wait until you've finished your tea, which, according to my estimations," he added, folding in his upper lip as he tried to recall the relevant data, "takes on average fifteen minutes."
Rose's eyes sparkled in amusement. She drew in the pillow Sherlock had abandoned earlier and hugged it to herself. He gave her a quick wink, then left the bedroom for the kitchen.
Rose gave herself a few minutes to wake fully, then stretched and yawned before leaving the bed. She noted that the bathtub was almost ready, so she attended to her toileting needs before unlocking both bathroom doors, and opening the door to the bedroom. It was a routine she and Sherlock had established on the nights she used to retire to his after her Saturday night shifts at the Rendezvous strip club. It gave her privacy from the passageway to the kitchen, but easy access for Sherlock to deliver her cup of tea while also bringing in a chair from the bedroom upon which her tea could sit.
Sighing against the welcoming warmth of the bath water, Rose slipped beneath the suds. She reached forward and turned off both taps. She had just finished rinsing off the soap when Sherlock hastened in with her tea.
"Perfect timing," she said.
"I do keep an internal clock on your bathing routine. Of sorts."
"Thank you."
They exchanged warm, familiar smiles then Sherlock left the room. As promised, fifteen minutes later, he returned to the bathroom and removed Rose's now empty tea cup and the chair. He quietly undressed in the bedroom. Rose knew Sherlock would already be semi-aroused and semi-embarrassed about it, so she slid forward in the bathtub, drawing her knees up to her chest. When she heard him entering the bathroom behind her, she grabbed the loofah and pretended her knees still required attention.
"I've saved you the best spot," she said casually, without turning around.
Behind her, Sherlock cleared his throat. She felt him lower himself into the tub.
"Christ!"
"Sorry," Rose said, quirking an unapologetic smile. "I topped up the hot water. I thought it had lost a bit of its potency."
"Potency? Are you trying to turn us into soup?"
Another tiny laugh escaped Rose, while Sherlock merely sighed. Whether out of contentment or exasperation, Rose couldn't tell. After Sherlock's legs appeared on either side of her, she backed up a little.
"Uh... Rose..."
"Don't worry," she said demurely, as she pressed herself up against him. "If you weren't, I'd be quite insulted." Rose would never tire of Sherlock's sometime awkwardness about his libido.
She felt Sherlock relax and he banded his arms around her. Rose dropped her head back against his shoulder and handed him the loofah. He quietly tended to her needs as he had done many times before. Rose fought back the flutterings of anxiety. She had vowed not to think about what tomorrow would bring, or, rather, what she would drag into tomorrow, kicking and screaming.
Sherlock listened to Rose's soft mewls of pleasure. He rearranged them both onto the now damp bedsheets. She clutched at his hair with one hand and twisted the loose sheet with the other. Sherlock knew he had her. When he stretched out on top of her, she was already arching and straining against him, completely responsive under him. The pressure was glorious.
When pleasure swamped them both, they then lay sated and spent, amid a tangle of limbs.
Sherlock remained in that position for quite some time, with his nose buried in the crook of Rose's neck, and his arm hanging loosely over Rose's torso, despite his previous preference not to be touched in the moments post-coitus. Rose had threaded her fingers through his and gave him a gentle squeeze.
"Just need the loo," she whispered.
In Rose's absence, Sherlock roused, dressed himself properly in trousers and a button-up shirt, and made his way into the kitchen. He expected Rose to emerge at some point. Gone were the days of lolling about together in the living room dressed only in pyjamas and dressing gowns. The risk of being interrupted by either the landlady or prospective clients was too great, especially since today was Thursday and not Sunday. To keep Mrs Hudson from speculating otherwise, Rose still had her cover of being Sherlock's sometime-counsellor. It made sense if the mental health professional was dressed appropriately.
Sherlock had just finished boiling the kettle when Rose emerged from his bedroom. He quickly scanned her, noting her attire consisting of a sensible, just-above-the-knee skirt and one of her work blouses, and she was carrying a pair of heels. It seemed she had received the memo.
Rose didn't meet his gaze, but instead immediately embraced Sherlock, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek on his chest. Sherlock was unsure how to respond, other than to return her hug. He couldn't be sure, but he thought Rose's eyes looked particularly moist. He wondered if she had been crying in the bathroom. What could that be about?
"This is lovely," she whispered.
Sherlock tolerated the hugging for a second or two longer than he usually would when he was otherwise preoccupied. He tapped Rose's back affectionately and said, "Okay. Tea will be ready in a minute. Would you like some toast?"
"Yes, please," she replied. She left him for the living room, still not making eye contact.
Sherlock thought he heard her sniff from over by his desk.
"Are you getting over your... cold?" he asked. He had deduced the evening before that she had, in fact, been nursing a minor ailment in the past twenty-four hours as she had claimed during their phone conversation.
"Almost," she called back. "Can I use your laptop? I just want to reply to a couple of emails. I hate typing on my phone."
Sherlock hummed in agreement, unconcerned if Rose heard him or not. Her request was more or less a statement of intention anyway.
He popped two slices of bread into the toaster and brought the cups of tea into the living room.
"What would you like on your toast?" he asked, placing Rose's tea cup beside the computer. He glanced at the screen—a work-related email. Dull.
Rose continued typing, with her eyes fixed firmly on her message. "What do you have?"
"Ah... nothing."
Rose's fingers froze on the keyboard. She finally looked up at him, and Sherlock was relieved to find a hint of amusement on her features.
"But..." he added, "I can go downstairs and borrow something from Mrs Hudson."
"Jam will be fine," Rose said finally, turning back to her emails.
Sherlock swiftly exited his flat and just as quickly returned with a jar of strawberry jam, fresh from his landlady's larder. By this time, the toast had popped up.
"All done," Rose said, closing the lid on the laptop as Sherlock scrapped jam across the toast.
He listened as she sighed and carried her cup of tea across the rug. She sank into John Watson's old armchair and quietly sipped her tea.
Sherlock delivered her breakfast in quick time, placing the plate onto the table beside her chair. He took his seat opposite, sans toast, and fixed her with a broad grin.
"Thank you," she said, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. "You've really outdone yourself this morning."
"I certainly have," Sherlock replied, reaching for his own cuppa.
"In fact," Rose said, lifting the plate from the table, "I'd say this is the equivalent of you hunting a wild boar, building yourself a fire, then roasting the animal over a spit."
"You forgot disembowelling. I've actually done that."
"Okay," she said, her eyebrows arching in protest. She dropped her gaze to examine one half of her toast, before taking a bite of it.
"It's rather interesting how everything comes tumbling out," Sherlock continued. "You'd actually assume the intest—"
"Sherlock," Rose said, her mouth still full. She slowly shook her head.
"But you eat meat."
Rose swallowed her mouthful, then said, "And I'm one cute anecdote away from becoming a vegetarian."
She chuckled lightly at her own quip, prompting Sherlock to rumble out a closed-mouth laugh of his own. He took another sip of tea, then noticed Rose squinting a little at her piece of toast before taking another bite.
"What's wrong?"
She chewed her mouthful for a moment, then swallowed. "No butter?"
"Did you want butter?"
Rose smiled at him in response before finally telling him it was fine. Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. She was just as fussy as John.
"So, what are you up to today?" Rose asked.
"Oh," Sherlock replied, heaving out a sigh. "Whatever comes up. Spend time with you in between." He gifted Rose with another broad smile and was relieved to receive one in return.
"Any new cases?"
Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and drew out his phone.
"There were a couple of new ones this morning. They only rate a three as far as I'm concerned."
He leant forward and handed Rose his phone. She carefully read each email as Sherlock sipped his tea in silence.
Finally she held out the phone and said, "I've already solved the first one."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her and closely scrutinised her expression. Of course she hadn't solved it.
"Internal or external?" he asked.
"External... ish."
"Can't have 'ish.'"
"Well, external to the family then."
Sherlock lightly rotated his phone in his palm as he kept his gaze fixed on Rose. "Planned or opportunistic?"
"Opportunistic."
"Why?"
"The open window."
A smile grew on Sherlock's face. "Very good. What else?"
He made himself comfortable in his chair and listened as Rose explained about the content of the stolen manuscripts and how they held historical relevance to the manor house. Since the gardener's family had a long service history with the estate, then he must have seen something significant in the documents to have wanted to steal them.
"Excellent," Sherlock remarked, steepling his fingertips together and lightly touching them to his lips. "But you've missed something important."
"What?"
"The gardener's wife."
"What about her?"
"Her illness. Huge medical bills. The documents mean nothing to the gardener. He'd get a fortune selling them though."
Rose swallowed her last mouthful of toast and said, with a frown, "So, I was wrong?"
"Completely."
Sherlock immediately stood, and retrieved the empty tea cups from both their side tables. Rose tutted at the result as Sherlock took the dishes to the kitchen sink.
"If it wasn't for the interesting fact that the gardener had one leg shorter than the other," Sherlock added, piling the dishes into the sink, "I would've rated it a one at most."
"Well, I was close," Rose said, joining Sherlock in the kitchen with her plate.
"Close doesn't cut it in my line of work." He took the plate from Rose. "There's no such thing as almost solving a case."
"I'll wash them," Rose said, indicating the now full sink.
"Nope." Sherlock gently steered her away. "We're not spending our day together doing dishes."
"There's not many."
Sherlock ushered Rose into a chair by the kitchen table.
"No. We're going to have fun. Now... when was the last time anyone took a buccal swab of your epithelial cells?"
The highschool biology lesson using a compound microscope to examine Rose's cheek cells and later her blood cells was undertaken with a lot of laughter and little concentration on Rose's behalf. Sherlock found that although she claimed to know the rudiments of chess, she couldn't actually play with any real skill or foresight. Deducing passersby in the street through the living room window yielded only wild speculation by Rose and not any accurate observations of note. Sherlock solved another case via email, while Rose read extracts from a hefty anthropological tome on cannibalism from the eighteenth to the twenty-first centuries, and gave her own armchair psychologist's assessment.
Their rather entertaining morning of mentally-rich activities was eventually interrupted by the landlady. Rose took to sitting innocently on the couch, slipping on her heels in quick time, before Sherlock opened the door.
"Just checking if you need any more milk," Mrs Hudson said, after whispering an apology for interrupting Sherlock's you-know-what. "I'm just going to the shop around the corner. I seem to have run out of jam. The funny thing is—"
"Yes. Milk. Thank you," Sherlock said, swiftly shutting the door on the woman.
"Why didn't you tell her you borrowed the jam?" Rose said in a loud whisper after hearing Mrs Hudson's footsteps dying away on the stairs.
"And spend several more seconds of my life listening to her witless babble?"
"That's disrespectful, Sherlock."
"No, I suppose you're right. I really should allow her to speak, but have her on semi-permanent mute."
Sherlock cocked his head at the sound of the front door closing. A tiny spark of mischief lit his eyes as he turned to face Rose.
"How about Cluedo?"
Mrs Hudson's guaranteed absence for about half an hour was a good enough opportunity for the pair to do something naughty in the living room, Sherlock decided. They could ignore the doorbell, should any clients show up. And they'd be done and dusted by the time the landlady returned.
"Miss Scarlett," Sherlock read, his heart quickening as he turned over the cards placed in front of him, "with the lead pipe... in the billiard room."
"Oh, yes!" Rose said, jumping up from the couch. "We've never had the billiard room before!"
Sherlock quickly scanned the living area, hoping something would prompt him to remember what they had allocated as the billiard room. Rose was already across the floor to the fireplace.
Indicating Sherlock's chair, she said, "Remember, your chair is the library, and the billiard room is across from the library." Rose gestured to John's old armchair.
All the oxygen in Sherlock's immediate vicinity was sucked into a void of nothingness.
"Ah..."
There was an odd ringing in his ears.
"Come on," Rose said, crossing the rug and taking the reluctant Consulting Detective by the hand. "This is all about you now."
Sherlock couldn't function properly. He didn't want to sit in John's chair. He didn't want to have his trousers unzipped by Rose while he sat in this specific chair, and he was even more against the idea of Miss Scarlett and her lead pipe doing him in the billiard room. His stammers and half-hearted suggestions to try a better location went unheard.
He'd make her stop before he became too aroused, he thought as Rose straddled him and was navigating the soft tissue about his neck and shoulders. Or... he'd get her to cease and desist before she took him in her mouth, he decided, once Rose had deftly unbuttoned his shirt in her journey southward. By the time she reached the waters she'd expertly navigated on many occasions, Sherlock couldn't hear his thoughts over the roar of the ocean.
Rose was already away from him before Sherlock could really register what had happened. She had at the very least tucked him in again. The detective-genius leapt from the chair once realisation dawned. He zipped himself up, blood leeching from his face. He was pacing, his heart thumping erratically when Rose returned from the bathroom, smoothing out her skirt.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Of course I'm not!"
After madly gesturing and wearing the carpet thin with his pacing, he was able to become coherent enough to at least hint to Rose that he was uncomfortable with the whole concept of ejaculating in the place his former flatmate used to sit on a regular basis. He was finally stopped by Rose's gentle hand on his arm. She placed the flat of her palm on his chest and said, "You poor thing; your heart's racing!"
"Of course it's racing!" He tapped his temple with the heel of his hand, his voice half a decibel below shouting. "I need oxygen! How am I supposed to solve this!"
To Rose's credit, Sherlock thought in hindsight, she didn't demand he calm down, nor tell him he was being silly. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, just above his ear.
"I'll help you, okay? Let me help."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits as he carefully scrutinised Rose and that mouth that had assisted in his undoing only moments earlier.
Rose drew away from him, but clasped one of his hands in hers.
"Come sit down," she beckoned, pulling him toward the sofa.
"No. I need to move."
He pulled his hand out of hers, and preceded to do just that. Move.
Rose sat down anyway, and patted the seat next to her. "You're using up more oxygen that way. It's going into your muscles, instead of your brain. Sit down."
She still spoke very patiently to him, he noted, as if she had just walked into the room and discovered an agitated stranger, and not a man who had just been sucked off until he came while sitting in his (apparent) best friend's chair.
Rose fixed him with a pleasant smile again, and ran her hand over the space next to her.
"Just sit with me for a minute," she said. "Or even better," she added, grabbing a nearby cushion and positioning it on her lap, "lie down."
Sherlock lightly placed one hand on his hip and said, "Are you serious?" He gestured with the other toward the offending armchair. "I've just told you how this whole… incident has corrupted this entire living area, and you want me to lie down."
"Yes," Rose replied, her expression unaffected by Sherlock's steely-eyed gaze. "Just for a minute." When Sherlock continued to challenge her with his eyes, Rose added, "It will correct the imbalance of oxygen in your brain. Then you'll be able to think again and solve this… issue."
Sherlock remained where he was. Surely she was mocking him now.
"All right," he said finally. "But just so you know, I'm quite immune to psychological mumbo jumbo."
A tiny laugh escaped Rose as Sherlock took his place, stretching out along the sofa with his head atop the cushion on her lap.
"Are you going to do that soothing thing," he said, waving his hand above his head, "with your fingers in my hair?"
"Eventually," Rose said. But she placed a light hand onto Sherlock's forehead. "Just close your eyes."
"Rose…"
"And concentrate on your breathing."
Sherlock exhaled heavily, then muttered, "This is rubbish." But he closed his eyes anyway.
"Maintain a steady—"
"I do know how to breathe."
Rose telling him to concentrate on his breathing did make Sherlock aware that his rate of inhaling and exhaling was noticeably high for one who was now reclined. So he made a point of counting for a few seconds on his next breath. But he wasn't doing it because she had asked him to. Not at all.
"Now I'm going to count to ten…"
"Completely unnecessary, Rose."
"By the time I reach three, your eyelids…"
Sherlock tuned out. His eyelids would not feel heavy by the count of three. He could open them if he wanted to. But he didn't want to, at the moment, because he was concentrating on his breathing wasn't he? He could wander through his Mind Palace all by himself, without a chaperone, because he was completely in charge of his own mental meanderings, thank you very much, Rose.
He didn't need Rose to tell him to walk further than he had ventured before. He knew behind which doors he could locate these so-called 'happy memories' she had wanted him to find.
Rose.
Obvious. Rose is behind this door.
I'm too recent in your list of happy moments, Sherlock, the Rose-memory said. Or had it been the real Rose? We've had too many experiences together that are… complicated. Go deeper.
Sherlock turned down several corridors, hoping that Rose was following him. The décor became older, familiar. Off to one side, behind a set of closed double doors, came a faint bark.
Redbeard, Sherlock murmured to himself. A tiny smile ghosted his lips.
But his eyes snapped open. He wasn't doing this here and now. His breathing was slow and easy; his limbs felt heavy. Rose was staring down at him, smiling.
"Did you find something in your Mind Palace to help calm you down?"
"My mind is clear," Sherlock replied, carefully side-stepping the question. "Oxygen levels restored." He sat up abruptly, almost headbutting Rose in the process. "And I've solved my dilemma."
"What dilemma?" Rose asked as Sherlock stood up.
"Come on, Rose," he said, striding across the living room. "Help me carry John's armchair upstairs."
"What?"
Rose placed her phone down onto the bedside table.
"All good?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes. Tonya said the ceiling is completely spotless now."
"Good." He held out an arm, inviting Rose to snuggle into his chest.
As she settled in with a sigh, she added, "I'll just make sure I don't throw any wild parties over the weekend before Monday's inspection."
Sherlock hummed in agreement, closing his eyes. "And no more toking inside the flat."
They lay together in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Rose wasn't feeling particularly sleepy. It was too early for bed on a normal night. Since she would have to wake at around three in the wee hours to get home before dawn, they had decided that retiring early would be the sensible approach. And retiring early had commenced with snuggling in Sherlock's armchair after they'd demolished the dinner they'd ordered in from the Chinese restaurant around the corner.
"And where am I supposed to sit?" Rose had asked Sherlock after he'd taken to his armchair across from the vacant spot where John's chair formerly sat. He held out one arm. His answer had been obvious.
After an intense period of snogging in Sherlock's armchair, they'd taken their antics to the bedroom, where they luxuriated in a slow session of love making. They'd then dressed in pyjamas, attended to their toileting needs and settled under the covers, with Rose deciding to check up on the cleaning status of her flat by ringing Tonya Small.
Rose closed her eyes and breathed in Sherlock's scent. She felt Sherlock's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. She wondered what he had retrieved from his Mind Palace to aid him in calming down earlier. When she had instructed him to wander further into his memories to seek out the pleasant ones, she hadn't expected him to murmur, after a few seconds, 'Rose.' Her heart had tripped over itself upon hearing her own name. After tomorrow, she had thought, Rosemarie Sulford would no longer be a pleasant memory, so she told him to continue on. He'd said something after a fashion, but she hadn't caught the word. She'd hoped by accessing the memory once, he'd find it easier to retrieve when he needed to calm down in the future.
Getting rid of John's chair seemed a bit of an overreaction, but she didn't say that to Sherlock. It wasn't as if they'd soiled the fabric. Sherlock had remained dressed in his shirt and trousers the entire time! She'd only made him more... accessible.
And it was a very awkward moment standing in John's old bedroom after they had struggled upstairs with the heavy piece of furniture. Of course Sherlock had noticed her discomfort as her eyes flickered toward the mattress now stripped of its linen and covered with a protective plastic sheet. His uncensored thoughts on the matter came tumbling out. As to be expected.
"Oh... right," he said, gesturing toward the bed. "You and John. Probably a good thing he passed out then, hey?" And then Sherlock had chuckled, prompting Rose to tut and immediately stalk out of the tiny bedroom.
It had been a wonderful day, despite the underlying sense of impending doom Rose was constantly attempting to ignore. Sherlock only mentioned Janine on one occasion, with Rose remaining perfectly composed.
Sherlock had received an email from one of Tonya Small's contacts in the late afternoon. The message contained a virtual tour and a three-dimensional schematic of Charles Augustus Magnussen's private residence.
"An unassailable fortress, Rose. But this area underneath the house that isn't made clear in the blueprints is more than likely a vault in which Magnussen stores all the dirt he has on people. I just need to find out from Janine what his movements are over the next week or so."
"A fortress? Sounds a bit dangerous."
"Oh, by the way I've told her I have a sponsor... you know, for my drug addiction. That can be your cover, if ever there's a connection made from you to me."
"A sponsor?"
Sherlock had quietly studied his screen for a few more seconds before suddenly asking, "How about afternoon tea?" His mind still seemed preoccupied but he had busied himself organising tea and crumpets, as he had initially promised Rose the other day. The crumpets, of course, he'd acquired from his landlady. Rose didn't want to press him further about her new occupation of being his rehab sponsor. She didn't want to linger any longer than necessary on the subject of the case that required him to pretend to date another woman.
As they lay in the stillness of Sherlock's bedroom, Rose felt Sherlock lightly caress his thumb the length of her arm. So he was as awake as she was, lost in his own thoughts, probably returning to Lady Smallwood's case, Rose surmised.
"I'll come with you," Sherlock said eventually, his voice breaking the silence.
"Come where?"
"When you leave for home at 3am."
Rose turned to look up at Sherlock, whose features were barely visible in the darkened bedroom.
"You don't need to. I don't mind catching a—"
"Or you could stay."
"Sherlock."
"No, Rose, hear me out."
Rose swallowed the uncomfortable lump that had formed in her throat. Sherlock rearranged himself, folding his arm behind his head. Rose moved away from him and sat up, facing him, but grateful that he wouldn't be able to see the anxiety on her face.
"When we were upstairs in John—" He paused to clear his throat before correcting himself. "—the spare room, I began to visualise all of your possessions in there."
"Oh... Sherlock," Rose said breathily, her heart sinking.
"You wouldn't need the bed, of course. But you could use the room while you're studying, or when you want to have a break from my ramblings..."
"No..."
"You said so yourself. You're going to have a problem paying the rent and your parents are moving to Scotland. Your work hours will be reduced so you can study, come September. Sharing the rent here will be more affordable. You just have to—"
"You know why I can't stay here," she said, her muscles tensing. "Or be seen here."
"That's what I'm trying to say." Sherlock reached for Rose's hand. "By September, this case will be a distant memory. Magnussen wouldn't care about me and my personal life anymore. Some other hapless bastard will be his focus."
"But it's not just Magnussen is it?" Rose countered. "There's the rest of the media industry and anybody ever interested in digging up dirt on people in the public eye. Didn't you ever read what they used to write about you and John?"
"No, I never cared to. John used to make a fuss about it, though."
"Exactly."
"But you're not John."
"And I'm not you."
Sherlock didn't immediately respond, and Rose was hoping he didn't find an insult in her statement. She carefully removed her hand from his and swallowed hard. This conversation required a little more than just words, so she moved to the edge of the bed and turned on the bedside lamp.
"John and I are the type of people that care a little about what others think of us," she said, initially staring at the lamp stand. Sherlock clucked his tongue prompting Rose to turn her gaze to him. "If they see a woman constantly in the company of the famous Sherlock Holmes," she continued, "they'll be more than just a little curious as to who she is and where she came from, don't you think? And I'm not sure how long the rehab sponsor cover will last."
"And so they investigate you. And getting beyond your status as a post-graduate student of Forensic Psychology and sometime rehab sponsor they may stumble upon the little fact of you working in a brothel. How that affects you has a lot to do with whether you care what people think or not. So we should train you to care a whole lot less."
"Are you joking?" Her expression hardened. "It's... it's about personal and professional integrity. It's about being respected in my own profession, among my peers, and potential clients. It's caring what my family and close friends think of me. It's caring how other people treat my family. Are you going to train the whole fucking world not to care?"
"That would make a nice change."
Rose shook her head lightly at Sherlock's nonchalant attitude. "At one stage," she said, "the world thought you were a fake and a fraud. If you hadn't faked your own suicide, did you think you'd ever receive another case again? Why would people come to you for help if they read that about you in the papers? Why would anyone want to hire me? What other people think matters, Sherlock." Her voice crackled toward the end.
She reached across and switched off the lamp. Her eyes stung, and adrenalin coursed through her veins. This was the conversation—the debate—they were supposed to have tomorrow, when Rose was going to announce to Sherlock that she was breaking up with him. But they were having it now. Rose's heart thumped dully in her chest, and she fought against the enormous pressure building up behind her eyes. She didn't want to break up with him right now. In her mind it was all leading to that event, though.
Now that the stage was set, she could always start the conversation tomorrow with, "I was thinking about what we were talking about last night. Actually, I've been thinking about this a lot, even before our conversation..." And she'd go from there. But breaking up with Sherlock right now was not the wonderful conclusion to the day she'd initially set out to enjoy.
Rose lay back down again, facing the edge of the bed and wishing Sherlock hadn't started the conversation in the first place. She heard him shuffling closer behind her.
"I'm sorry," he began, his voice thick and gravelly, which made Rose's insides flood with shame. "I just want to make you happy." He banded an arm around Rose, curling his body behind her. Rose's next breath shuddered from her lungs. "You just seemed happy today," he went on, his voice now warming her insides, "and us living together is an obvious solution, for me, anyway. I'm sorry I disregarded your feelings."
It was too much for Rose, and her tears betrayed her, falling freely. She tried to discreetly sniff, but trying to hide her reaction was all in vain. She turned around in Sherlock's embrace so she could face him.
"And I was happy today." She reached for him and lightly skimmed his cheekbone with her thumb. "I am happy. Thank you. You made this the perfect day for me. For us. I'm glad I took the day off. For twenty-four hours it was just the two of us alone in the world..."
"With the occasional visit from Mrs Hudson."
Rose's light laughter floated throughout the darkness accompanied by Sherlock's deep-throated rumble. When their laughter died away, Sherlock narrowed the gap between them and pressed a tender kiss to Rose's lips. She let him linger a moment, then drew away, asking, "Do you love me?"
"Yes," came his immediate reply, just a whisper away from her lips.
"And I love you," she replied automatically. "And I always will." Before further tears threatened to spill, she whispered again, "Always."
.
