Chapter 62 – You Won't Need Morphine

Every day that passed without Sherlock either calling, texting, or stopping by her place seemed to reinforce his guilt, as far as Rose was concerned.

The afternoon after her emotional outburst, she sought solace in the bathroom, not emerging until Melanie, her friend and in-store promoter, discovered her there. Rose was in no frame of mind to return to work, and at Melanie's insistence, she left the store for the tube. She didn't care what her workmates thought of her. She didn't care about anything really.

Her bed was a great source of comfort, but at some stage in the early evening, she had a shower and made herself a honey sandwich for dinner. It sat, uneaten, on her coffee table as she remained immobile on her sofa, staring at nothing in particular.

Rose longed to get high. She wanted all the sharp edges of her thoughts to be softened and blurred. She didn't have any weed at her place, and she didn't want to ring Billy in case Sherlock was there. High or not, she didn't even want to think of him breathing the same air as Billy.

Her emotions flitted between bone-deep sorrow, fist-clenching anger, and a feeling of hopelessness. She couldn't believe he thought his actions were acceptable. What did he do? Did he look up the definition of adultery, read that it was all about having sexual intercourse with someone who wasn't your partner, then deciding that he could do everything else but stick his cock in someone else's twat?

That last thought brought on a surge of hateful adrenalin and Rose grabbed her sandwich plate and hurled it across the room, yelling, "I fucking hate you!"

She lay on the sofa, burying her head deep into the cushions, wanting to scream some more, her head rattling with thoughts such as Why are you so stupid! The genius-detective. Such a wanker. Such a child!

Rose's heart continued to thud erratically. The clock still ticked how many minutes, seconds and hours it had been since she had left Sherlock. And he still hadn't made an effort to explain himself. Or apologise. Or made some stupid, stupid, fucking attempt at

A knock on her door caused Rose to freeze. She sat bolt upright. She must look a fright, she thought, and she ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it out a little. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and couldn't decide whether to answer the door or not. After harbouring angry thoughts about Sherlock's lack of contact, she decided she wasn't actually up to another confrontation just yet.

"I know you're in there, darling."

What? Tonya?

Rose inelegantly disentangled her legs from underneath her, left the sofa and strode toward the door. Did Tonya hear the plate smashing? Rose looked at the carnage against the wall near the coat rack.

She couldn't have heard, Rose concluded. Tonya's flat wasn't directly on top of Rose's. There were floors in between, and Tonya's was further along the passageway.

Tonya Small's voice floated through the door as she knocked once more. "Rose?"

Rose scanned the mess that had spread from the wall to the floor... is that a crack in the wall?

Oh, no, it's just the honey.

She turned to the door, smoothed out her clothes and wiped her eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, she unlocked the deadbolts and opened the door.

"Oh, my darling Rosebud," Tonya said, her face falling at the sight of Rose. "You're taking it harder than I thought you would."

Rose stepped back as Tonya bustled inside. Rose's head buzzed. She knew Tonya was pretty sharp at deducing things, much like Sherlock. But still...

"H-how did you know?" Rose asked.

"Why... it was on the news."

Tonya continued toward the kitchen as Rose's stomach dropped several inches. Tonya called back, "I'll put the kettle on."

"On the news?" Rose repeated, her voice faint and strained, as she followed Tonya into the kitchen. "Why... h-how..."

Rose's worst fears had been realised. Had someone at work seen her arguing with Sherlock and recognised him as the Consulting Detective who had faked his own suicide?

Tonya calmly filled the kettle, then looked back at Rose.

"The evening news," she said. She turned her attention back to the tap, watching as the kettle filled with water.

"On television?" Rose asked. Why were their relationship troubles breaking news for the nation?

Tonya turned off the tap, then carried the kettle to its stand as she spoke.

"Why... yes. Where else? How did you hear about it, if not from the news?"

Rose blinked a couple of times, her mind in disarray.

"Are we..." she began, struggling to gather her thoughts. "Are we talking about two different things?"

Tonya leant back against the kitchen counter and folded her arms in front of her. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, she said, "I'm referring to John Garvie's arrest, darling."

Rose physically deflated and she turned and sank into a dining chair. This wasn't necessarily better news.

"Arrested for what?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"Oh," Tonya said, waving a flippant hand, "being a corrupt bastard. Something like that."

"Not... sexual deviancy?"

Tonya laughed. Not necessarily a comforting sound when it came from the Clarence House Cannibal.

"No, darling. But this..." she added, her face growing serious again. "This may not be a good thing."

"I know," Rose said.

"The press love to kick someone when they're down. Anybody who has any kind of dirt on the man will be coming forward, hoping to sell their story and cash in on his demise."

"But Magnussen already knows about me."

The pair lapsed into an uneasy silence. Rose picked at her fingernails. Tonya eventually turned around and began preparing their tea.

Bringing their mugs to the dining table, Tonya took a seat and said, "So, you were upset about something else when I came in. From the depths of your despair, I can only assume Mister Holmes has something to do with it."

Rose burst into tears again.

"Oh, my darling, Rosebud," Tonya cooed.

The rest of the evening was spent listening to the same lines Tonya used to spiel about Sherlock, Garvie, and men in general who used the services of prostitutes. Sherlock never had any respect for women, Tonya said, even Janine Hawkins in the end. Rose didn't actually mind Tonya's ranting this time. She still didn't quite agree with her. She honestly thought Sherlock did love her, but was too stupid to know where to draw the line. Still, someone else's hatred directed at the man settled over her like a shock blanket. Tonya bustled around her, making supper, cleaning up the smashed honey sandwich, and folding Rose's clothes that came out of the dryer.

Rose felt better in the morning and decided to go to work. Halfway through the day, though, Gus said something benign, something about having to deal with misplaced invoices while she had been at home having a personal drama, and Rose snapped. Three years' worth of frustration at having to work with an incompetent like Gus came pouring out. The man sat in his chair, a game of solitaire on his screen, mouth agape and unable to speak as Rose stood over him and unleashed a torrent of abuse.

She stormed out once more and headed straight to Canning Town. Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not there; Billy hadn't seen him since yesterday morning, he said. Rose purchased extra weed from Billy and took it home. She spent Friday night toking on her balcony with Sunil and Melanie, who had come around with alcohol to offer their support.

Tired and hungover the next morning, Rose didn't go to work. Nor did she call in sick. In the afternoon, when she was woken by Tonya's loud knocks on the door, Rose discovered that Marjorie, from head office, had left her a text message, summoning her to a meeting on Monday.

Whatever, she thought.

Tonya had come around with the papers, and together they scoured every article to do with Garvie. There was no hint of any sexual scandal, but Rose said it was early days yet.

Sunday was particularly bad for her, because it was Sunday. She walked to Kensington Gardens with Tonya and her puppies and sat on their favourite park bench, sunning themselves. Rose was either stoned, drunk or hungover, or a combination of all three, that weekend.

On Monday morning, she dutifully reported to head office to be grilled by Marjorie, and comforted by Peter, the head of Personnel.

"I've left my boyfriend," Rose explained, in between forced tears. "He's a drug addict, and he sold all of my things... and then my... my... best friend died."

Half truths, all of them. But she didn't really care, nor did she want to lose her job. She just didn't want to be there at the moment. Of course, she could've just sat in her office and played solitaire. If Gus could get away with it, then why couldn't she? But she couldn't even stomach being around that man and his salted peanut-crunching.

Rose said all the right things in her meeting. Had they been said to Rose the counsellor, she would've recommended a week away from work for the troubled employee. Fortunately, head office had always appreciated Rose's efforts in their store in Shepherd's Bush (except when it came to promotions) and Peter, head of Personnel, recommended that she be given the rest of the week off, unpaid of course (added Marjorie), but at least she wasn't going to get fired. In a month or two, though, she was required to attend a personal development course about anger management.

For fuck's sake.

Rose at least phoned her ASXX counselling supervisor to say she wouldn't be in this week. She felt they deserved a courtesy call. It was one job she actually liked.

But to top it all off, her passport arrived.

Rose buried it in a drawer underneath her underwear.

Their conversation about Sherlock taking her to Paris had occurred during one of their bathtime sessions. This trip wasn't going to happen now, and she didn't want to be constantly reminded of Sherlock's promises during happier times.

The next morning, during Rose's lazy week off, Tonya came around with more newspapers. Nothing about Garvie, Tonya had said as Rose brought both their cups of tea into her living room.

"But I thought you should see these, here in the safety of your own flat," Tonya added.

Tonya carefully laid the papers down onto the coffee table, where the headlines screamed at Rose:

Shag-A-Lot Holmes

7 Times a Night in Baker Street

He Made Me Wear the Hat

Rose's eyes dropped to one strapline, Sherlock is as red-blooded as they come, claims fiancé. Her immediate response was, "That's not how you spell fiancée."

Rose sank down onto the sofa, and added, "Thanks, Tonya, but I don't want to read them. I get it. He fucked her."

"She says he used her for sex," Tonya said, taking the seat beside Rose, "then dumped her after proposing to her."

So, did he buy the ring? Rose mused, her stomach churning at the thought of their last conversation where Sherlock told her he wanted to buy her a small trinket to show his commitment toward her.

"It sounds like she's getting her revenge. Good on her," Tonya remarked. "And at least there's no mention of Garvie in these papers. Sounds like the press are already tired of his story."

Rose spent the rest of the day walking aimlessly around Kensington Gardens, and then Hyde Park. She watched a couple of lunchtime performers, then went back to her flat for her now regular afternoon nap. She tried not to think about the stories in the paper. She hadn't read them. Her blood would boil if she read them. Her phone rang a couple of times, but she ignored it. When she finally got around to checking it, she found that she had one missed call from Billy and one from Sunil.

Of course Sherlock wouldn't ring her. He couldn't now, even if he wanted to; she'd blocked his number. But what if he was using Billy's phone? She wouldn't put it past him, especially now that his scandalous activities had been reported in the papers, and he would suspect that Rose had seen them by now... if he was at all concerned.

When "Billy" rang again, she declined the call.

Shortly into the evening, while Rose was toking on her balcony, there was a rather insistent knocking at her door. Rose's mind had already drifted blissfully away in a haze of THC, so it took her a few seconds to register. Before even contemplating that the visitor may be Sherlock Holmes, she opened the door.

"Billy!" she exclaimed, glassy eyed, a wide smile adorning her face.

"Why aren't y'answering your phone?" Billy asked, stepping inside.

"I thought you were... someone else."

Rose went to walk away to continue her smoking out on the balcony when Billy called her back.

"Aay... we're meanta be goin'. Did you listen to the messages I left you?"

"Why?" Rose asked.

"Get y'jacket... oh, and the key to Shezza's. 'e says you 'ave one."

Rose furrowed her brow at the mention of his name.

"You can take it back to him," she said petulantly. "It's on my keyring."

"Nah, Rosie. I need 'elp with this."

"With what?"

"With 'elping Shezza escape."

Even in her current state, Rose knew there was something not right here.

"Escape from where?"

"From 'ospital."

Rose tried to raise the necessary concern for this information. But her mind and body were not cooperating.

"Why... is he... in hospital?" she asked, blinking slowly.

Billy tilted his head. "Don't y'know?"

Rose slowly shook her head.

"Somebody shot 'im."

This news would ordinarily have been met with a gasp of shock on Rose's part, but instead, she snorted out a laugh, and then doubled-over as the apparent humour of the situation overshadowed the gravity of Sherlock's predicament.

"Rosie, come on," Billy bid her, rather impatiently.

Rose couldn't stop laughing. There was something so wonderful about the timing of Billy's news.

"Shot him!" she repeated, in between a fresh round of laughter.

Billy tutted and grabbed Rose's coat for her. He also retrieved her bag from the coffee table, rummaged around inside it for a moment, before drawing out her set of keys.

"Come on," he said, now pulling on Rose's arm as she continued chuckling to herself.

"Wait!"

Rose pulled away from Billy, and quickly ducked out to her balcony to retrieve her unfinished joint.

"Don't bring that," Billy said. "I need y'to be sensible."

"Tooo late," Rose said, giggling as Billy bundled her outside. She took another drag on the joint and said, pointedly, "William Wiggins."

She could see Billy attempting to ignore her as they descended the stairs to the ground floor. Rose was surprised when they headed straight toward a cab that sat idle on the kerb.

"We're catching a cab?" she asked, as Billy swiftly plucked the joint from her hand and crushed it underfoot. He ignored her protests as he steered her toward the waiting vehicle.

"I've got Shezza's card for all our expenses," Billy explained. "An' 'e said you know the PIN."

"Do I?"

Rose had no idea what was going on, and she didn't think it was necessarily because she was high. It was as if she had found herself in some sort of alternate universe, where Bill Wiggins travelled by cab everywhere and told her to behave herself and to stop smoking marijuana. It was bizarre, and worth giggling about every so often.

Billy had waved a list under her nose, and began reciting it to her. Instructions from Shezza, he had said. First they had to stop by a pharmacy to buy a bottle of Claire-de-la-lune.

"Why?" Rose asked petulantly. "For his fiancée?"

"It's all a part of the puzzle, innit?"

"What puzzle?"

"The one 'e wants Doctor Watson to solve."

"What?"

Billy left the cab idling in the street and ordered Rose to stay there and wait for him. He returned shortly with the perfume and bid the cabbie to take them to Baker Street. Rose protested loudly about this, until Billy told her it was a matter of life and death and if she wanted to help catch a potential murderer, then she'd better shut up.

Rose was silent for the rest of the way, fuming that she was coming down from her high and that a perfectly good joint had been squished on the footpath outside her flat.

"You can 'ave a toke la'er, Rosie," Billy said as they pulled up outside Sherlock Holmes' residence. "We've got work to do."

Wait a minute, Rose thought. Who's he beginning to sound like now?

Billy unlocked the front door and ushered Rose inside.

"Ah..." he said, looking along the passageway to the rear. "Where...?"

"Upstairs," Rose said, still pissed off about being ordered around by Sherlock, who was obviously using Bill Wiggins as his mouthpiece.

"Now..." Billy said, looking around then peering at his list. "We 'ave-ta put an armchair back in its place."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Come on, Rosie."

Rose crossed her arms and stubbornly remained where she was as a gesture of defiance.

"I'm not struggling on that fucking staircase again with a heavy armchair because some psychopathic fucking man-whore can't make his mind up about where to place it."

"Aw, Rosie, you really 'ave a mouth on ya, when y'get angry."

"I'm not doing it."

"Look. This is all for the puzzle. Clues for Doctor Watson. Shezza wants the chair down'ere, so we 'ave-ta put the chair down'ere."

"Why? So some filthy prostitute can suck him off while he sits in it, making random deductions about the world? Oh, wait a minute. That filthy prostitute is me."

"Aay..." Billy protested, reaching for Rose by the arms. He bent over her and said, firmly, "You don't eva talk 'bout y'self like that. Never."

Rose's mood was rapidly nose-diving. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Billy regarded her for a moment before reaching into this jacket and pulling out an already-rolled joint.

"Listen. Y'can 'ave this one after we're don'ere. Okay?"

Rose examined the expertly rolled spliff. Billy was waving a carrot in front of her; that's what her life had come to. Do this unpleasant task, and you can escape your shitty existence on a marijuana high.

Rose finally acquiesced and they ascended the staircase to John Watson's old bedroom. Getting the chair down was a lot easier than lifting it up there previously. Billy bore the brunt of the weight, while Rose steered him toward the fireplace.

Rose sank down into the chair as Billy fussed about her. He placed a side table next to the chair, then fiddled with the positioning of the bottle of Claire-de-la-lune by a stack of books until he thought it was just right.

"I don't get it," Rose said.

"Well, 'e's gonna sit there, inn'e? 'e'll look at the perfume, and make a connection between that and the killer."

"The killer? Are we talking about the person who shot Sherlock?" Rose asked.

"Yep."

"And Sherlock needs John to work it out?"

"Summin' like tha'."

"Well, I know who I put my money on... Janine."

"Nup."

"Why not? He screwed her and dumped her."

Billy took a seat opposite Rose, in Sherlock's armchair.

"I'm disappoin'ed in ya. Of all the things y'know 'bout Shezza, you believe the lies she told in the papers? That's 'er revenge, Rosie. She won't want nuffin' to do with shootin' the guy. She got want she wanted. Money for her story."

"Okay," Rose said, sighing. She didn't care to know.

Sitting in Sherlock's flat by the fireplace was making her chest constrict. Her thoughts clashed from a confusing myriad of new facts. Sherlock had been shot—last Thursday, Billy had told her. This meant he'd been in hospital all this time. He hadn't chosen to avoid contacting her. He physically couldn't. He might have died, while she was projecting death-threat like thoughts upon him.

This was too much for Rose to comprehend right at the moment.

"May I have the joint now?" she asked Billy, ever-so politely.

"Not in'ere. And anyway, we've still gotta get a few more things. Shezza needs a change of clothes. Can you get them? I just 'ave t'find 'is spare mobile phone and bluetooth 'eadset."

Ten minutes later, they were walking along Baker Street. Rose was toking, and Billy said he'd only give her a couple of minutes before they had to catch a cab.

"But I've barely had any!" Rose whined when Billy said her time was up. "I'm not wasting another one."

"'ere, look."

Billy took the joint from Rose and lightly brushed away the ashes and embers. He then twisted the spliff to close up the end. He pocketed the joint once more and promised Rose she could have it when they reached the hospital carpark.

Good, Rose thought. There was no way she wanted to see Sherlock without being high.


The burning sensation underneath his ribcage began to spread, radiating outwards. Sherlock's chest grew tight as his mind started to receive input from his immediate surroundings. He knew he was floating back to the surface of reality, like he was supposed to, as he had requested. That meant that somebody had turned down his morphine drip as per his instructions.

He finally opened his eyes a crack, then blinked several times against the dim lighting. In his periphery, he sensed movement to his right. He slowly turned his head.

She was sitting with her head bowed, hugging her knees, on the visitor's chair that had been placed beside his bed. She was wearing those abominable skinny jeans that were next to impossible to remove when needs were high and urgency was paramount. The fingers on the hand that rested on her knee were tapping along to some unheard song.

Sherlock found this image of her a bit disturbing.

"Rose," he said, his voice strained from disuse. He wondered if she was wearing headphones. He called her again at a louder volume after not receiving a response the first time.

Rose slowly lifted her head. Her too wide a smile and glassy eyes initially threw Sherlock.

"You're awake," she stated, her words floating on air.

She put her knees down as Sherlock continued to scrutinise her.

"I'm supposed to dress you," she said in a dream-like manner. She stood up, stretched her arms above her head and yawned. "Oh, God, I'm tired!"

This wasn't the Rose Sherlock had expected to encounter upon waking. When he instructed Billy to contact Rose so they could help him leave the hospital, he imagined an angry Rose, an upset Rose—a Rose who was struggling to hold back both tears and rage. But not this Rose. It was as if...

Oh.

She was stoned.

Rose glanced about the room. "Now, where...?"

Sherlock watched her, fascinated by her fluid movements and unaffected demeanour. Was she even concerned that he'd been shot?

"Rose," he said again. His voice was like gravel, and it was beginning to hurt like hell to breathe. He didn't know what he wanted to say to her. He probably had a lot he should say to her, but his mind wasn't fully functioning yet.

"O-kay," she said, laying Sherlock's clothes down on the end of the bed. She lightly tugged at the sheet around Sherlock's waist and drew it downwards. "Oh... nice underwear," she remarked, with a slight giggle.

Rose shook out Sherlock's trousers and held them up in front of her.

"I wanted to bring Billy's old trackies in," she said, commencing with one of Sherlock's trouser legs, "because they'd be more comfortable, but he said it was all about presenting a confident image to your killer. I think it's because you're a vain bastard, but anyway, what would I know."

Sherlock had winced at her words. She was still speaking in that dreamy way she normally did when she smoked weed, even down to the underlying affection in her tone. The words themselves were at odds with the rest of the package. He dreaded to think what she would be saying by the time she came down from her high. His own morphine-induced euphoria was wearing off. It looked like they were both going to be in a lot of pain shortly.

As Rose continued dressing him, she said, "I'm not here because I care about you; I'm here because I'm helping Billy."

Sherlock tried to maintain a steady breath. He didn't want to over-analyse Rose's words, nor could he come up with a suitable counter-argument. The fire in his side was growing in its intensity.

"Just - wait," he said, after Rose had untwisted his trouser waistband underneath him. His voice struggled through the pain. He exhaled slowly, then zipped up his trousers himself. "I need a moment - before we try the shirt."

Putting on his shirt would require him to sit up and remove the morphine drip. His ribs weren't quite ready for that yet. His Pain Management System wasn't quite ready for that either. Sherlock reached over and increased his morphine just a tad. He didn't want to go back to sleep, but he did need to do something about the pain just for a moment.

Rose was quietly watching him, he could sense that. His eyelids grew heavy and he let them flutter shut. His ribs protested with every breath. He felt the mattress sink in ever so slightly and a pressure on his forehead—a hand?— and suddenly Sherlock was transported back into his Mind Palace. He was wandering the corridors in the older section of his memories. In the periphery of his vision he was sure Rose was there, watching him, but whenever he turned his head, there was no sign of her.

The air around him thickened as he walked along until it felt as if he were walking underwater. His feet left the floor and the body of water made him buoyant. It was dark and warm and very, very still. He drifted aimlessly with the gentle currents until slowly but surely he was floating toward the surface again, toward the light.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. Rose was standing near the blinds, reading the cards on the flower arrangements. Did he imagine she had sat on the bed beside him and pressed her palm to his forehead?

"Rose," he called weakly.

She turned around, her face expressionless.

"How long was I out for?"

Rose shrugged indifferently.

"Let's... do this," he said, reluctantly.

Sherlock pressed the remote to raise the back of the bed. Rose lifted her brows, and Sherlock thought she was going to burst out laughing. Thankfully, she didn't and she moved to the end of the bed and retrieved Sherlock's shirt.

"Oh, wait," Sherlock said, looking toward the crook of his elbow. "Where's Billy? I need him to remove this first."

Rose sighed and dropped the shirt onto the bed.

"He's out hunting wheelchairs," she said in a bored fashion.

"I can't remove this with one hand." Before he could explain himself further, Rose had drifted out of the room.

Sherlock exhaled heavily. The urgency with which he had decided to leave hospital seemed to have lessened. When he first awoke and his thoughts had become lucid, all he could think about was Mary and how wrong he had been about her. Not wrong, so much, as the observations were all there—Liar, skip code, orphan's lot. He just hadn't connected them to deduce her real identity. He'd ignored the person she was because of the person he needed her to be: John's wife, and a trustworthy confidante. It was only when Janine had said, "I'll give your love to John and Mary," that Sherlock remembered they were still a couple, and John was oblivious to what Mary was and what she had done.

He had to put plans in motion to inform John about Mary, and to convince Mary that Sherlock could help her. But why hadn't she trusted him enough to come to him in the first place?

The only way Sherlock could achieve this was by leaving hospital and getting John to start to piece things together himself. Sherlock would have to fudge a few clues along the way—much like the time he had arranged things for Rose to spot in her flat when he had left in a huff. To accomplish all this, he needed help. His thoughts immediately went to Rose. The slight twinge in his heart reminded him that there was unfinished business between them. But as far as Rose was concerned, he recalled, they were finished business. And so he had to enlist the assistance of Bill Wiggins first.

"Billy's coming," Rose said, drifting back into the room.

Billy arrived close behind with a few supplies but no wheelchair.

"The chair's around the corner," Billy informed Sherlock. "Jus' need t'get it 'ere the long way round."

Billy busied himself donning surgical gloves. Sherlock watched in mild amusement as the drug den chemist confidently clamped off the drip and began to remove the tapes that secured the extension tubes to Sherlock's arm. Billy had assured him earlier that he was able to do this sort of thing.

Rose stood on the other side of the bed with her arms folded in front of her, intently watching Billy as well. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach for her hand. Instead, he closed his eyes, steeling himself for the pain that would inevitably creep back, as Billy removed the rest of the tape and dressing.

"Come round 'ere, Rosie," Billy said finally, as the pressure of the catheter was removed.

Billy instructed Rose to hold a strip of gauze over the insertion site while he cleared away the equipment and dressings and stowed the additional supplies he had stolen into his jacket.

"You finish gettin' 'im dressed," Billy said, halfway across the floor, "an' I'll get the wheelchair."

"But what about...?" Rose asked Billy.

When she was met with silence, Sherlock opened his eyes. It seemed Billy had left without answering her.

"What about the thing in your neck?" she asked, redirecting her query to Sherlock.

"We decided to leave it there," he replied. "In case they need to administer something important... later."

Rose frowned, then her eyes took in the rest of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watched her features carefully. He was trying to see if Rose would display signs that she still cared for him.

"Is that where you were shot?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who shot you?"

"Yes."

Rose continued to stare at the bandage as if she were trying to come to terms with something before her eyes met his again.

"Who?"

Sherlock sighed wearily. The fewer people who knew about Mary's real identity, the safer it would be for everyone concerned. But perhaps Rose wouldn't be safe in Sherlock's company if she wasn't aware that a so-called friend was actually a highly-trained killer.

"Mary," he said. "Mary Watson."

He could see Rose trying to compute that fact.

"Mary?"

Sherlock smiled weakly in confirmation.

"I'll explain it all later, but first," he said, pulling away at the electrode tapes that held the ECG leads in place, "I still have to get dressed."

Rose released pressure on the gauze strip she was still holding and peered cautiously at the injection site.

"It'll be fine," Sherlock said, indicating his arm.

Rose deposited the gauze into a bin behind her, then tentatively approached the bed again.

"I need my shirt," Sherlock said, thinking he had to prompt her. Clearly she was deep in thought now and likely to forget what it was she was supposed to be assisting him with.

"You know, anyone can just walk in and out of here," she said, not moving from the side of the bed. "We did. You don't have any security guards. Doesn't anybody care?" Clearly you do now, Sherlock thought with some satisfaction. "I'd have thought your over-bearing brother would've… would've put the Queen's own bodyguards outside your door."

"He doesn't want to draw attention to me. I'm hiding in plain sight, and besides… the person who shot me knows exactly where to find me. Now, Rose. Shirt."

This prodded Rose into action. She rounded the bed and silently helped with Sherlock's shirt, patiently waiting while he took several breaks throughout to breathe through the pain. Finally the shirt was around him, a little crinkled and still unbuttoned.

"Let me stand now," Sherlock suggested. He told her that it would ease the pressure a little if he wasn't hunched over on the bed. He was going to lean back against the bed for support. "But stand in front of me in case I collapse."

A look of alarm crossed Rose's face, before it just as quickly disappeared. She helped Sherlock swivel his legs around and sit up without the support of the pillows behind him. He dropped his feet to the ground and shakily stood, leaning heavily on the edge of the bed.

"Okay?"

Rose's face was awash with worry. Sherlock could tell she was coming down from her own high. He was grateful that concern was the first real emotion she was displaying toward him.

"Bit light-headed," he replied, ignoring the pain in his side. "Could you… could you button up my shirt for me… please." His own hands were occupied with holding onto the bed.

Rose dutifully acquiesced and began by arranging the collar about his neck to hide the tubes. She emitted tiny sighs throughout, music to Sherlock's ears.

She cares.

He could smell her shampoo while her head was bowed in concentration in front of him. The scent tickled his nose and filled him with a familiar warmth. Finally, Sherlock couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"Rose... I'm sorry."

There were two buttons left at the bottom, ones that required her utmost attention, apparently.

"For what?" she asked, her eyes remaining downcast as she slipped the last button through its hole. "For hurting me? For fucking somebody else?" She finally looked up and locked eyes with his. "Or for making me come in here and attend to your every need like some kind of maid-servant?"

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Well, options one and three, obviously. The second option didn't actually happen."

Rose studied his eyes. Was she attempting to assess the truth behind his words?

"And…" Sherlock began, desperately trying to condense his feeble explanations into the length of a social media tweet. "Although I was naked, I had been taking a bath. She unknowingly entered, but nothing untoward happened. Although, she made a few comm—"

Rose had terminated his rambling by pressing her lips to his. It was unexpected, but thoroughly welcomed. Her long, stirring kiss ignited every nerve in his body. He brought a hand up to rest lightly on her arm. His heart began to race, but Sherlock couldn't be sure if it was because of her warm presence or the fact that he was upright. He reluctantly decided it was the latter. He drew back a little, which Rose appeared to sense, and she eased out of their kiss.

She lingered just a breath away and whispered, "I hate myself for still loving you."

His heart dropped at her words, but there was something more pressing he had to address.

"Um… Rose," he said, his voice fraying around the edges, "could you stop leaning on me."

Her furrowed brow remained in place but she straightened up, taking her weight from him.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he said on a relieved exhale. "The bullet tore a hole inside me."

Rose's jaw hardened and she took a step back from Sherlock. She gave a faint nod in acknowledgement, then murmured, "I know how that feels." Rose turned from him to retrieve his jacket from the end of the bed.

Sherlock didn't quite understand. Was she still angry with him or wasn't she?

Before he could think of something else to say, Billy appeared in the doorway with the wheelchair.

"All right, Shezza?"

Sherlock straightened up and gave Billy a faint nod. Rose helped him with his jacket as Billy fussed with the wheelchair.

"It's got one-a these... things," Billy said, gesturing to the IV pole attached to the wheelchair. "So maybe we could-a..." He looked over to Sherlock's morphine drip, the one they had just removed from the patient's arm.

Sherlock followed his gaze, and closed his eyes in resignation.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "We have to leave. Now. Rose, my coat."

He gestured toward the low cabinets underneath the flowers where his belongings had been stored. Time was at a premium, and so was his ability to remain upright and pain-free.

"We'll bring it anyway," Billy murmured. "I can always..." he patted his now bulky pockets, "hook y'up la'er if y'need it."

While Billy collected the morphine drip and attached it to the wheelchair, Rose silently helped Sherlock draw on his Belstaff. He was beginning to feel a little bit like himself. Just a little.

Both Billy and Rose helped Sherlock into the wheelchair. His breath came in short bursts. He realised he was going to be operating on pure will-power and adrenalin, neither of which would last long. Although if Billy could reattach his morphine drip...

"All right," Billy said, taking up pole position behind the chair.

"Wait," Sherlock said, pausing a moment to catch his breath. "Rose, raise the blinds."

"Why?"

"Just - do it."

Rose did his bidding, exhaling loudly as she did so.

"And open the window," he added.

"Ah," said Billy, enlightened. "They'll think you escaped outta the window."

Rose fixed Billy with a look of annoyance.

"He's on the first floor," she said. "And he can barely stand, let alone climb out of a window."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said, struggling to get his words out, "what erroneous conclusions people will draw from an open window."

"And," Billy offered, "they'll think 'e's long gone, giving us plen'y of time to get a cab outside."

Rose rolled her eyes then made for the door. She squeezed past them both, calling back, "Let's go then, geniuses!"

.