Chapter 59 – All Right, Shezza?

Sherlock clutched at his chest, his heart-rate sprinting the final twenty metres of a steeplechase.

"Christ!"

Billy turned to him. "All right, Shezza?"

"God, no. What have you done to me?"

Sherlock bent double, his face turning red.

"Are you 'avin' one-a those heart attacks or summin'?"

Sherlock gently lowered himself to the floor. Knees, then hands. His heart continued thundering.

"Maybe I shoulda changed it a bit," Billy casually offered. "Y'got no tolerance."

"You think?" Sherlock said, his voice straining as he bowed his head.

Lying down on the old college kitchen floor seemed like a good idea. He could feel the pulse in his neck echoing the same protests as his heart. Every object about him appeared with razor-sharp edges, and every hue took on a new vibrancy. But it was the sensations in his own body that caused the greatest alarm.

"All right. I'll getcha summin' else."

"An ambulance perhaps."

"Are y'tachycardic?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as he lay flat on his back and concentrated on his breathing. His chest felt like a great weight had descended on it. Then Wiggins' cold, thin fingers encircled his wrist. Too cold, like handcuffs of steel. Sherlock abruptly pulled his arm away.

"Not dangerously high," he snapped, opening his eyes once more.

Sherlock felt for his radial pulse. After fifteen seconds and confirming that he wasn't about to rupture something he brought both hands to rest on his abdomen.

"I'll check again in five minutes," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose as every odour of each piece of furniture, chemical, and fabric in the near vicinity reached his nostrils.

"Just say the word," Billy said, straightening up from his crouched position next to Sherlock, "and I kin ring 999. It's all part of the service."

"Service," Sherlock said derisively.

"Yep. At the top of the list is ring emergency. Get y'to A&E. No more messin' about with benzos or nuffin'."

"Thank Christ for that."

Half an hour later, Sherlock was pacing along the row between the kitchen counters behind Billy. He'd just finished brushing dust and debris from the back of his jacket while his trusty chemist made up a take home solution as per Sherlock's instructions and after adjusting the recipe to suit the detective-addict's lower tolerance levels.

At that moment, Sherlock felt particularly brilliant.


Rose eyed the second hand as it made yet another circuit on the clock mounted on the office wall. Gus had just 'gone to the loo' and Rose had five more minutes left on her shift. She could finish early this afternoon as she had opened the shop in the morning.

She was dog-tired because she hadn't gone back to sleep after leaving Sherlock's in the early hours. And even if she had been on a later shift, there was no way she could have gone back to sleep when her thoughts weighed heavily on what she had decided to do this evening. Every hour that passed during her work day was one step closer to seeing Sherlock again. Her spirits sank lower and lower with each tick of the clock.

Sherlock had assured her he'd go around to hers much later that night as he had a few things to do, people to see, corpses to poke at. She knew he'd be home sporadically throughout the evening, and that was what she had been counting on. She didn't want to break up with him when Sherlock was at hers; he'd never leave then. If she did it as his, she could at least walk out on him. She'd done that before. It had been particularly heart-breaking the last time, but on this occasion, she didn't intend to return.

At exactly four o'clock, Rose entered her finish time in the log book. Without waiting for her 'superior' to get back from his session, she left the home entertainment store for the bus stop. Although the journey would normally take fifteen minutes by tube, Rose had to extend the journey to ensure she wasn't followed. She would also use the time to change her appearance via one of the facilities along the way.

Finally, she reached 221 Baker Street now dressed in an old hoody and jeans as opposed to her smart business skirt, blouse, and jacket and carrying a large shopping bag in which she had stowed her regular handbag and work clothes. She let herself in and swiftly closed the door behind her. The front passageway at the bottom of the stairs was dimly lit and Rose lifted her sunglasses and rested them on top of her head. It took a few seconds for her to comprehend the sight that lay before her.

A figure—a man—lay in a crumpled heap on the first step. A man in a long grey wool coat. His mop of black curls rested on bent arms halfway up the staircase, and he seemed to be sleeping rather peacefully.

Rose overcame her initial shock and took several steps forward.

"Sherlock?" she said, bending down and gently shaking him by his shoulder. "Sherlock," she said again when he failed to respond. She crouched down beside him on the bottom steps.

The world's only Consulting Detective slowly raised his head to Rose's relief. As his glassy-eyed slits came to rest on her face, Sherlock's mouth slowly split into a broad, sleepy grin.

"Rosie," he said, reaching for her. "Hello." And then he snorted out a laugh. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Rose regarded Sherlock's semi-absent expression. The burden she had carried all day fell away from her. There was no way she could end their relationship with him in this state. What state? But relief flooded through her and her eyes moistened. She reached up and cupped one hand to his cheek.

"Sherlock."

"Hello, Rosie," he said, his intoxicated grin still in place. "Have you come to visit me again?"

"Yes, I have," she said, every nerve-ending in her body poised for loving this stupid, silly man. She wanted to hug him and kiss him, for disrupting the awful task she'd come here to undertake. But why had he ended up like this? For some reason, it didn't seem to surprise her, really. But first things first. "We should go upstairs, though. Can you stand?"

Sherlock tried to sit up, but upon straightening his legs and attempting to raise himself up, one foot slipped, removing his purchase on the first step and he slid two steps downwards.

"I'm... f-fine..." he said, somewhat breathily upon landing inelegantly on his bottom again.

"Here," Rose said, depositing her shopping bag on the ground beside the stairs. "Move over to the bannister... There." Rose puffed a little as she coordinated moving Sherlock's uncooperative body toward the other side of the staircase so he could hold on while she supported him with his other arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Okay, can you climb? One foot in front of the other... there. That's it."

They made slow progress, with Sherlock attempting to offer his new dimensional views on the public transport system, his landlady's penchant for dusting, Rose's attire, and something about Willy's inability to read instructions. Rose offered noises of encouragement every so often.

When they finally crossed the threshold into Sherlock's living room, Rose directed Sherlock to his sofa. He more or less collapsed onto it, almost dragging Rose down with him. She disentangled herself from his sloppy embrace and stood over him, breathing heavily after her physical exertion and examining him from head to toe.

"Let's get you out of your coat," she said finally.

She wrestled the long grey coat from him for what seemed like an unnecessarily long time, with Sherlock snorting out a laugh now and again. After she'd taken it from him, Rose moved over to the living room door to hang it up.

"What have you taken?" she asked, making her way back to Sherlock. She sat on the coffee table, facing him. "This doesn't seem like a coke high."

"Oh, cocaine," he said with disdain, now fully reclined and idly waving a hand in the air. "Willy almost killed me with all this other... stuff."

"Who?"

"Willy... Willy... Biggins... Willy Biggins... Baggins? Biggy... Wiggy..."

"Billy?"

Sherlock weakly chuckled again and limply beckoned for Rose to come closer. Although kind of relieved that she didn't have to break up with Sherlock just yet, a lead weight still materialised in the pit of her stomach at this new state of affairs. Rose shifted from the coffee table to the edge of the sofa.

"What did Billy give you?" she said, running a gentle hand through Sherlock's wayward curls.

Sherlock fumbled around in his jacket pocket.

"I have... s-some...thing," he murmured, reaching for the other pocket. "Ah!" he exclaimed in delight, withdrawing a folded piece of paper.

Rose took it from him and read the contents, frowning in confusion. She recognised cocaine, naturally, and 'a morphine-derivative', whatever that was, but not the other items, some of which were chemical symbols and not names at all.

"What's this?" she asked Sherlock.

"A list," he replied, grinning broadly as if he was proud of his efforts. "For my brother, but... shhh!" he added, raising a finger to his lips then plucking the paper from Rose's hands. "He can't know yet."

Rose sighed wearily as Sherlock pocketed the list.

"So this… this boutique speedball is for your brother's benefit?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face.

"No... no... no!"

"Then... why? It's not for your... case... is it?"

Sherlock didn't respond, only to grin again. It was rather alarming, all those drugs, the chemicals, when presented in such a thorough list, she thought.

"So why did you actually have to take the stuff? I thought you were going to buy it, and experiment on it. Not actually use it. Not get Billy to mix up some kind of... I don't understand why you'd do this to yourself... what if a client had walked in on you? Or Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock shushed Rose again, as if she were revealing his secret just by talking about it. But then Rose realised he had probably heard what she also had... the front door clicking shut.

Rose leapt up and strode to the landing. She heard the sharp click-clack of heels at the foot of the stairs, and then a loud tread followed by muffled swearing. She took a step back toward the living room door, in two minds about shutting themselves away, or intercepting the potential client on the stairwell and preventing them from seeing Sherlock Holmes in his current state.

Rose's hesitation was her loss, for a female rounded the corner in quick time.

"Oh... hi," the woman said, spying Rose above her, and grinning sheepishly. She vaguely waved the pair of high heels she now held in her hand. "Broken another pair on those damn stairs," she added.

Rose's eyes widened as the woman continued ascending the stairs confidently, her stockinged feet silent on the steps. She looked familiar, but...

"Did... did you want to see... Mr Holmes?" Rose asked, her heart-rate accelerating. She hoped like hell that this wasn't who she thought it was. And she didn't remember Sherlock mentioning she was Irish.

"Yeah," the woman replied, tilting her head as she tried to peer past Rose.

Rose took a step toward the top of the landing in a weak attempt at blocking the view to the reclined detective-genius.

"Are you a client?" she asked, feebly.

"God, no," the woman said, with a hint of a laugh. "Sherl?" she called, looking past Rose once more as she neared the top of the stairs.

Sherl?

Rose had no choice but to move aside when the woman, who Rose now assumed was Janine, came bustling past.

"He's just..."

Rose didn't know what else to say. She concluded that Sherlock's little experiment with a wide concoction of illegal substances was purely for Janine's benefit to pass onto Magnussen, perhaps. So this was the people to see, corpses to poke at that Sherlock was referring to for his Friday evening's activities.

Rose's heart hammered in her chest as Janine entered the living room.

"What have you done to yerself?" the pseudo-girlfriend asked. Rose didn't fail to notice the affection in the woman's tone.

Rose hovered in the doorway, unsure of her own role now.

"He's... um..."

Just like the time she had accidentally encountered Mary in Sherlock's flat, Rose was unable to think on her feet.

Sherlock had looked up at Janine, then beyond his new visitor toward Rose. He rumbled out a laugh at the scene that lay before him.

"Oh, Sherl," Janine lamented.

"He'll be okay," Rose hastened to add.

Janine spun around, and directed an unimpressed glare at Rose.

"I'm sorry, but... who are you?"

Rose dragged her eyes from Janine's accusatory ones, to Sherlock's glassy, beady ones. He chuckled again as if he was enjoying the show.

"I'm..."

Janine placed her hands on her hips, thus stealing all authority in the room. She tilted her head at Rose, prompting Rose to instantly hate her. Now Janine was on the inside, and Rose was the intruder standing on the landing and having to explain herself.

"I'm... his..."

She glanced back at Sherlock again.

"Hello," he said, waving a limp hand at her.

Rose frowned, then met Janine's eyes once more. "… his … sponsor."

A shadow crossed Janine's face, and she narrowed her eyes at Rose. Taking two steps toward the door, the Irish beauty said, "Well, I'm his girlfriend." Rose felt a dull stab to her heart, and her breath stuttered on the way in. "And I know what kind of sponsor y'are," Janine added icily. "I'll take over from here."

Janine reached over and immediately shut the living room door in Rose's face. Rose couldn't move for a few seconds, her muscles were left paralysed by the turn of events.

Through the door she heard, "Sherl, you loon. What have you done?" A loud thud resounded, as if something had dropped onto the coffee table. "Well, I've broken another pair," came Janine's voice. "Looks like you're not in a state to fix them, though."

When Rose heard Sherlock rumbling out another laugh, she blinked, as if coming out of her stunned trance. The murmurings and further laughter emanating through the closed door prickled her skin. She turned toward the stairs, catching her breath as she grasped the top of the bannister. A fierce heat had spread across her cheeks, but she didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She had now confirmed her cover for being in Sherlock's company—his rehab sponsor—but it didn't matter anymore.

He had a new girlfriend—someone who didn't seem to mind what state he was in. A girlfriend that didn't appear to have a seedy past; a girlfriend that would look amazing on the front pages of a newspaper, should anyone come digging.

Rose forced herself to descend the stairs. Every step became easier, as if the burden of breaking up with Sherlock was lightening with every tread.

He now had a shoulder to cry on. Whatever he thought of Janine, whatever phony feelings he displayed toward her, he'd get beyond them in time. It was possible, Rose reasoned, for him to develop genuine feelings for the executive assistant eventually. He had already developed an attachment to his one-time paid sex worker, hadn't he? Now anything was possible!

Rose fought against the intense feelings of jealousy as she retrieved her shopping bag from the bottom of the stairwell. She could now replace them with relief, with hope. Sherlock had someone else to care for him, to help him through the emotional battering she was about to deliver. Sherlock would get over her, eventually, in Janine's company.

Rose, however, would never let Sherlock out of her heart.


"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his head bowed, a cup of coffee in front of him, and Janine's light touch on his arm. His high was wearing off, but he was lucid enough to remember that while high, he hadn't blown his cover. He wasn't sure what had happened to Rose though. He did recall she had stated she was his sponsor. Clever girl. But why had she appeared here in the first place?

"But you weren't here," he continued confessing to Janine, allowing wretchedness to dominate his voice.

"Oh, Sherl," Janine responded, predictably. "You know I was just a phone call away. You can call me any time. You know that."

"This week has been particularly bad. I just couldn't... cope."

And on and on it went. Contrite Sherlock; comforting girlfriend; ineffective sponsor. Janine played right into his hands. Eventually, coming out of his chemically-induced fog, Sherlock decided he needed to have a bath.

"And I have to get going," Janine said. "It would be nice to get into my own place. You picked up the keys to my flat for me, remember?"

"Oh... yes," Sherlock said, slowly rising from the sofa and padding over to the door where his coat hung.

He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved the keys, then handed them to Janine. He waited, expectantly, for her to gift him with one of her intimate farewells.

"I'll come back later?" she said, "I'll bring dinner. You should eat something."

Sherlock gave her a weak smile.

"Thank you," he said. "For being here." He maintained eye contact as Janine moved closer and attached herself to his lapels. "You know," he began, his voice taking a rough edge to lend it some integrity, "You're the only person who really knows me."

Janine began to visibly melt at his words. Was it really this easy?

"Except for John," he added, wanting to include an element of truth. "But..." Sherlock appeared to struggle for the right words. "But even he didn't ever see me like this... At my lowest."

Janine reached up and caressed his cheek. She was far too close for comfort, but it helped that Sherlock wasn't as sober as he'd normally be. This was almost... tolerable.

"Well, I might keep your secret," she said, a tiny smile on her lips. "Or I might go to the papers."

"A crying detective doesn't really sell newspapers."

"Well, I'll have to make something up then."

Sherlock huffed a tiny laugh, before he ducked his head and beat Janine to the kiss.

Having Janine Hawkins witness him in a pathetic state had been crucial in his bid to have Magnussen think the detective was a drug addict and therefore no serious threat. But there were moments during the day, particularly this morning, when he had second-guessed himself. Was this really all for a case? The switch from his usual D.O.C. of cocaine, a stimulant, to a concoction of opioid-dominated substances had happened far too easily. He almost welcomed the effect the drugs had on him. The dull ache whenever he thought about Rose lessened somewhat, giving him a brief respite from all of those... feelings.

When Janine returned with Chinese food from the place around the corner later that evening, Sherlock rambled on about having no cases, except for the one he had discarded weeks ago: Lady Smallwood and her husband's letters.

"No, Sherl, you can't take on Charles; he'd eat you alive!" Janine protested.

"It's all I have left. If I don't have any work..." he replied, trailing off and letting the silence speak for him.

He deftly changed the subject, only to bring it up again later in the evening while he was fixing Janine's second pair of shoes.

"How hard can it be?" he asked, waving the shoe around. "All Lady Smallwood wants is to negotiate the return of her husband's letters. I'm only going to act as an intermediary."

"Look at the state of yourself," Janine scolded him. "You can't take on a man like Charles."

Silence descended on the pair as Sherlock pretended to brood while he repaired the heels.

Eventually, he said, "Set up a meeting." He handed Janine her re-heeled stiletto. "I just want to talk to him about the letters."

"You can't. You almost missed the edge of the table with my shoe. You're not as mentally sharp as you usually are."

"Not right now," Sherlock argued. "Next week some time. I promise I won't touch anything else. I'll stay on the wagon. Or off the wagon... or wherever I'm supposed to be in relation to the wagon."

A tiny laugh escaped Janine. "I don't know about that."

Sherlock had retired to his armchair when Janine went to clear away the Chinese food containers. When she returned to the living room and stood in the place John's armchair used to be, she took one look at Sherlock sitting comfortably and asked, "So... I'll just sit all the way over there, shall I?"

Sherlock glanced up at her, and calculated.

This was a similar conversation he'd had with Rose yesterday. If ever there was a standard measurement for regret, a pang just wouldn't be adequate enough to describe the sharp pains Sherlock felt internally at that moment.

But he continued with the pantomime. He was getting so close to the end now. Holding out one arm—just as he had done with Rose—he silently invited Janine to sit in his lap for a session of cuddling. He had decided that he needed to facilitate a little more physical intimacy with Janine in order to get his own way.

Cuddling. Not snogging.

Janine made herself comfortable in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock made himself look comfortable with the whole idea.

He gently rubbed a hand along the length of her arm.

"I will be fine," he said, imploring her with moist eyes. "I can handle myself around someone like Magnussen, Janine. My bingeing days are over. Definitely, over."

Janine's pupils were well-dilated now, so Sherlock went in for the kill. He raised his hand and cupped the nape of Janine's neck, studying her eyes, before moving to her mouth. He heard her sharp intake of breath as he laid a light kiss on her lips.

With his mouth still hovering over hers, he whispered, "And I know you'll be there for me, just a phone call away, but…" He kept his eyes locked on hers as he put distance between them. "I need this case right now."

Janine appeared to study his eyes—eyes that Sherlock had expertly manipulated into reflecting sincerity. Finally, she sighed, then went on to advise Sherlock that she and Charles would be away from Saturday afternoon until Wednesday, so she would try to make an appointment for Sherlock with her boss for a timeslot on Thursday.

"But not Thursday evening," she added. "We've got an important meeting with the Marketing Group of Great Britain."

"Thursday it is then," Sherlock said, suppressing a satisfied smile. He noted how easily it was for Janine to impart confidential information about her boss's movements these days.

"So I'm going to be away all week," Janine said, her face awash with concern. "Are y'going to be okay with that?"

Sherlock bowed his head sorrowfully. "I'll ring you if I... have any problems." He cleared his throat, straightened up. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom."

It was a weak excuse to rid himself of Janine and her awkward position on his lap. By Janine's light-hearted chuckle as she climbed from him, he gathered that she assumed his discomfort was caused by something else entirely.

He steered the rest of the evening around benign conversation interspersed with continuing the fictional anecdotes about his childhood. When the hour grew late and Janine yawned, Sherlock manufactured a mild panic.

"You're not going to leave now, are you?"

"Do you want me to stay?"

It was relatively easy getting Janine to stay over, to cement the notion that he was in a delicate mental state. He offered her a shirt since she didn't have any other clothes with her, and once more gave up his bed because he was quite content to sleep on the sofa. He allowed her goodnight kisses to linger before she retired to his bedroom. Sherlock stretched out on the cushions, wondering when he should hightail it to Rose's.

He never made it. It was dawn the next time Sherlock opened his eyes. Wearily, he took himself to the bathroom and had a long soak in the tub. And when Janine gave a cursory knock and entered on his insistence, he allowed her to stoop down to give him another goodbye kiss. He playfully scooped up a handful of bubbles, and plopped them onto her nose as Rose had done to him a long time ago. Janine yelped in surprise and he emitted a deep-throated chuckle.

Sherlock Holmes had well and truly secured a place in Janine Hawkins' heart. That much was obvious. But why couldn't he use his talents to keep the girlfriend he actually loved? Why did he have this feeling that Rose was slipping further and further away?

Janine left his company with the assurance she'd ring later in the week to confirm his appointment with Magnussen. Sherlock promised her he'd stay away from mind-altering substances.

Fresh from the bath, and fully dressed for the day, Sherlock sent a text to Rose. As it was Saturday, he knew she'd be at work.

I'm sorry about yesterday. Can I see you tonight? Your place or mine. Either will do. —SH

Sherlock spent most of the day at Bart's. He even ignored a call from D.I. Lestrade, because he felt he couldn't focus on any one thing. Janine had been right. His mind wasn't as sharp as it usually was. His heart though… it commanded all his attention. He had a constant, ever-present ache—surely as a result of a faulty vagus nerve. Only Rose's presence and reassurances could alleviate the pain. That, or artificial substances. It was one or the other. No in between.

Rose's phone went straight through to her voicemail, but Sherlock didn't leave a message. He'd already sent her the text. He didn't feel the need to sound desperate as well.

As he reflected on Friday evening's events, he realised how upset Rose had been. In his drug-induced euphoria, he had thought Rose and Janine meeting for the first time was a little bit funny. Now he didn't see the humour in it at all. And he remembered Janine referring to herself as his girlfriend. While he did credit Rose with a high level of intelligence, and hoped she'd know that only Janine believed she was in a relationship with Sherlock, he also remembered that Rose hadn't been privy to that level of detail in his plans to infiltrate Magnussen's inner sanctum. He'd only let Rose know about the coffee and dinner dates. And even then, he assured her they couldn't even be classed as 'dates.' He knew how this may have looked. But the kisses. She didn't know about the kisses... well, they were mostly one-sided. Definitely one-sided, with Sherlock taking a passive role.

It was now Saturday night, and Sherlock didn't want to spend another Sunday without snuggling with Rose. How had it come to this?

Sherlock slowly drew on his coat, preparing to leave Bart's where he had been wasting time watching mould grow. He knew, with a sinking heart, that Rose wouldn't be home even before he entered the flat. Why should she be? She was a relatively young woman, with some semblance of a social life on a Saturday night. A social life she found perfectly acceptable to have out in public with other people.

After confirming his suspicions, Sherlock took the most direct route possible to east London, to the doss house in Canning Town.

To his surprise, Rose wasn't there either.

Sherlock turned to leave, but behind him, a voice said, "Oh, good. Shezza. I made summin' you might be interested in."


Sherlock pulled up his collar and shivered against the crispness of the early morning. The sun hadn't made it over the tops of the buildings yet. He knew it wasn't the very next morning; it wasn't Sunday morning. It couldn't be. He had vague memories of an entire day passing while he lay in a haze of dust, on an old mattress in the former lecture hall, with sunlight leaking in through the makeshift curtains at various stages. He was recuperating, mentally. That's what he had been doing. Mental health professionals would highly recommended the exercise, surely.

He made it to the main road and scanned up and down the street for signs of a cab. It was nowhere near peak hour on a Monday morning, but he knew he'd be able to flag one down eventually. Sherlock didn't dare to think how he must look. He intended going home, having a quick shower, making a beeline to Leinster Gardens and catching Rose before she left for work.

Hailing a cab and instructing the cabbie semi-coherently where to take him hadn't been too hard. Staring blankly at the door knocker and wondering if it had been straightened or if it was still slightly askew was a more difficult exercise through the window of the cab. Sherlock concluded that the knocker was almost straight, so he bid the cabbie to drive on. If there was even the slightest chance that his brother was waiting for him in his flat just after five in the morning, then Sherlock couldn't risk it.

He quietly let himself into Rose's flat, not caring that he'd just asked the cabbie to deposit him just outside number 23. His body felt like lead. He had exhausted himself just travelling the distance from east London. He would lie down then, just for a minute, and wake Rose later.


Rose swiped at her phone to end the alarm. She stretched and yawned, then lay blinking slowly at the ceiling. Her bedroom window was open, and a gentle morning breeze made its way inside. It was going to be a warm one, Rose thought, flexing her toes and opting to lie in for a few minutes longer.

She managed to go an entire weekend without seeing Sherlock. Naturally, her thoughts drifted to him quite frequently. How could they not? The laughter that came through the door to the landing on Friday night still caused an icy claw to grip her heart. The week stretched out before her. When could she stomach seeing him again? When would she end this?

Concluding that she couldn't postpone the rest of her life forever, Rose slowly climbed out of bed, showered, dressed, made herself a cuppa, and stood, leaning against the kitchen counter biting into a piece of jam on toast. Her thoughts were all jumbled.

Oh, crap, she thought, glancing at her phone screen that sat on the counter. Now she was going to be late.

Rose quickly gulped down the rest of her tea, then washed her dishes, dried them and put them away. Normally she wouldn't bother, but today she had an inspection by the property manager, and everything had to be perfect.

After running her eyes around the kitchen one last time, Rose grabbed her handbag and went to retrieve her coat from the living room.

She froze for a moment out of non-comprehension.

"Sherlock?" she said, racing toward the lump curled up on her sofa, his coat discarded on the living room floor. "Sherlock!" She dumped her bag onto the coffee table. Leaning over her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, she shook him, only to be greeted with an incoherent rumble.

"You can't stay," she said, prodding him some more. "Wake up!"

Sherlock murmured and rolled onto his back.

"Sherlock!"

Rose straightened up, her heart-rate rising with panic. He couldn't stay here! She couldn't really expect the property manager to ignore the drugged-out boyfriend passed out on the sofa while he verified that there was no marijuana residue on the ceiling above it.

"Get up!"

She could always drag him upstairs to Tonya's, she thought, eyeing his very crumpled suit jacket. Had he been like that all weekend? Rose decided she didn't even want Tonya Small to see the detective-genius in this state.

"Rosie."

Sherlock was looking at her through slitted eyes.

"You have to leave, Sherlock! I've got the property manager coming this morning, remember?"

Something like a tut resounded from Sherlock's vicinity, and he petulantly turned to his side to face the back of the sofa.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Rose felt like kicking him in the backside.

"Get... up!" she said, shoving him in the back. Sighing, she sank onto the sofa behind his legs, and leant into him. For fuck's sake, she thought, reaching for her bag. Time to call in the expert.

Rose rapidly dialled Billy's number, listened to it going straight to his voicemail, hung up, then dialled again. Whenever Billy had his phone on Do Not Disturb, Rose knew she could ring him again straight away and her call would invariably get through.

"Billy!" she exclaimed breathlessly when he answered. "Are you doing anything right now? Yes, I'm sorry. I know it's early." Rose quickly explained the situation to her friend, asking him if he minded coming over to fetch one very high Sherlock Holmes before nine o'clock. "And Billy," she said, eyeing Sherlock's creased suit. She had swiftly determined that Sherlock Holmes in his current state (or any state really) shouldn't be seen leaving her flat. He needed to be incognito. "Could he borrow some of your clothes?"

After telling Billy she'd leave her keys underneath the welcome mat outside for him, she ended the call. She really had to leave for work now. With this in mind, Rose leant over Sherlock, and rested her chin on his arm.

Sherlock, she thought, reaching over and carding her fingers through his hair. Why are you doing this to yourself?

.