Chapter 64 – Mundane is Good, Sometimes

Sherlock sighed in satisfaction at the absence of the constant beeping that previously interrupted his sleep. Every two hours, he had had to put up with, "Sorry love, just checking your blood pressure." But now, a steady, light breath cooled his neck instead. Sherlock turned his head and pressed his lips to Rose's forehead. She lightly stirred, causing a tiny fluttering in his stomach.

He loved the way her arms were tucked into his side, as a precaution, she'd said, against her flopping an arm over his abdomen and hitting his wound on the other side. Her peaceful sleep filled him with a warmth he hadn't felt in weeks. It was as if her love coiled around and seeped into him by osmosis; she was content enough to fall asleep beside him in a tiny hospital bed even though she knew she only had a few hours of uninterrupted visiting time.

"Do I have to go?" she murmured, her eyes still shut.

Sherlock's chest grew heavy at the thought of Rose's impending absence.

"In a few minutes," he replied.

Rose hummed in response—agreeably or in protest, Sherlock couldn't really tell. But she nestled in closer and brushed his jawline with her lips. He felt her retract a little, then a tiny chuckle escaped her.

"Next time I'll come with a razor," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said, lifting a hand to scratch his jaw. "They did ask if I wanted a shave, but I didn't want anybody here touching me... well, more than they already do. I did ask my brother if he could send over his barber, but he laughed at me as if I was joking."

Rose was silent for a few seconds before she brushed her lips over his cheek.

"Actually, I like it," she murmured, cupping his other cheek with her hand and lightly skimming the bristles with her thumb.

Desire and need rippled through Sherlock—an unwelcome sensation in this environment.

For the past week and a half, Rose had been stealing onto the ward late at night, assisted by whatever well-compensated porter was on duty at the time. At first, Sherlock was confused and disorientated. His earliest post-emergency-surgery memories had him being wheeled along the corridors for an x-ray or an ultrasound or something deemed important, and someone in surgical scrubs had kissed him on the forehead telling him she'd see him later. And strangely enough, the porter who was transporting him at the time looked suspiciously like Bill Wiggins.

Rose had laughed when Sherlock recalled that story. She and Billy were having a fun time of it, Sherlock discovered, playing at hospital ward infiltration along with a couple of porters and one domestic cleaner, all of whom Billy had bribed.

She had visited Sherlock on a couple of other occasions after her initial visit, Rose told him. She mostly sat reading magazines or case studies, holding his hand while he was still out of it. Sherlock only recalled the time he actually woke properly, murmuring, "F-fuck – off – Mycroft," because he thought it was his brother sitting beside him, rifling through government papers. It was a pleasant surprise when he heard Rose's high laugh, and she had bent over him to kiss his forehead. He was more than happy to wake from his semi-slumberous state then.

During Rose's visits she mostly chatted to him about Billy's continuing adventures in the drug den, her work at the store, or articles she'd been reading. On occasion, she'd recall the sad stories about the women she encountered during her counselling work. She'd yawn incessantly throughout, though, and it had only been in the last three nights that Sherlock invited her to lie down in bed with him to catch up on sleep. He could do with not hearing some drug-addicted sex worker's tragic story for one evening, but he could also see that Rose was becoming more and more sleep-deprived as the week progressed.

"To sleep," he had said, hastily qualifying his suggestion of her lying next to him when she had quirked a suspicious brow. "Perchance to dream," he had added, one corner of his mouth stretching into a smile. "I'm far too drugged up for any of your usual shenanigans."

And so they had slept together, with Rose waking and leaving his company at around 2am each night. His pillow would smell like her shampoo long after she'd gone. Sherlock continually felt pangs of longing as he breathed in her scent.

As Rose's kisses became more pronounced along Sherlock's jawline, he reached over and turned on the reading lamp.

"No, Rose," he said wearily. Regretfully.

Rose's sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes squinted at the sudden illumination.

"What time is it?"

Sherlock retrieved Rose's phone from the bedside table and glanced at the clock.

"Almost two."

Rose sat up and stretched her arms high. Sherlock watched her, wishing they were in his bed in Baker Street and that she didn't have to leave at all. How long and mundane was this process of recovery?

Rose left the bed for the adjoining bathroom to freshen up. Sherlock's spirits sank lower as the seconds ticked by. Rose returned and silently slipped her feet into her shoes as she leant on the bed. Sherlock stretched out a hand and ran his fingers along the length of her arm. He thrust his bottom lip into a pout when she glanced up and smiled at him.

His sullen expression turned Rose's smile into one of affection.

"I'll be back at the end of the week," she said, leaning over to kiss his pout. Sherlock tutted before she got there.

It was annoying that Rose and Billy's infiltration plot relied heavily on the cooperation of just two of the porters whose rosters didn't always include the nightshift or this floor. And exactly what was the role of the cleaner? If Sherlock had been in a position to organise her clandestine visits, in all likelihood, Rose would have ended up as one of the nursing staff, alternating between catering and portering—with perhaps a sprinkling of thoracic surgery thrown in for good measure—just so she could be here twenty-four hours per day for his own amusement. But Sherlock couldn't independently organise his own bathroom needs at the moment, let alone manipulating groups of people to do his bidding.

After their usual goodbye ritual was complete, Sherlock sank heavily into his pillow and watched Rose as she cautiously peered through the gap in the door. She glanced around, gave him one last smile in farewell and vanished into the corridor and out of his otherwise dull existence.


Sherlock was standing near the window, clad in his familiar grey pyjamas and dark burgundy dressing gown when Rose entered late Friday night. He held onto the window frame to assist in turning around when he heard the door click shut behind her.

"Up and about?" Rose asked, swiftly removing her coat. "That's an improvement."

"Yes," he replied tetchily. "A great achievement. I can now move between my bed and the window at the pace of a snail. I think the people of London can sleep soundly in their beds at night knowing that Sherlock Holmes will be on the case should a crime occur within one yard of my hospital bed."

Rose chuckled lightly despite Sherlock's obvious foul mood. She draped her coat over the end of the bed then moved toward him to assist him to cross the floor.

"No, Rose. I can do this. I've been performing this feat all day. I feel quite accomplished." Sherlock sighed heavily as he gingerly climbed into bed. "By the end of the week I will have made it as far as the nurses' station."

"Any progress is good progress," Rose said, without much thought. Sherlock tutted in response.

As Rose arranged the bedcovers over him she assumed Sherlock felt a greater sense of freedom in movement now that the morphine drip was no longer attached. But she could see exhaustion marring his features from his jaunt across the floor.

She perched on the bed beside him, whispered her 'hello,' before planting a kiss on his lips. Sherlock's mouth immediately turned down at the edges—his new default expression.

"Why don't you lie beside me and do nice things to me."

He was definitely feeling sorry for himself today, Rose thought.

"Let me freshen up first," she replied. "I've just come straight from work."

"Work?" Sherlock repeated, as Rose rounded the bed and headed for the bathroom. "But it's... late."

"I'll tell you about it in a minute."

Rose took her bag to the bathroom with her. She undressed as quickly as she could and donned a t-shirt and track pants—comfy clothing in which she could lie down next to Sherlock and do nice things to him. She longed to have a warm shower, but the poor man seemed desperate for her attention. She knew he was going out of his mind with boredom, prompted by a lack of stimulating company, and irritated by the physical limitations his injury had imposed on him.

After she returned to the room, Rose climbed into bed. Sherlock had lowered the head of the bed and had placed his second pillow beside the first for Rose. She settled in and told him she was now providing counselling at a women's refuge centre in North London every Friday night. She ignored his under-the-breath scoff, choosing to card her fingers through his hair and run her thumb over his brow in an effort to smooth away his frown.

"Did you have any visitors today?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, if only to roll them toward the ceiling.

"I have the same visitors every day."

"Well, you like your routines..."

"At precisely 9am, John Watson enters my room. He sighs heavily, says my name by way of a greeting, then busies himself reading my chart. He clucks his tongue twice, frowning the entire time, before he strolls over to the window with his hands folded behind his back. After several minutes, he nods, asks if I'd like the newspaper, then he leaves the room in order to purchase the aforementioned paper."

"He's probably finding the situation very awkward."

Sherlock closed his eyes once more, his face softening under Rose's affectionate ministrations.

"He doesn't even mention her name," he continued, his eyes still shut. "He barely refers to the shooting. I'm sure he'd like to think it was I who carelessly impeded the flight of an independently stray bullet."

Rose smiled to herself at Sherlock's musings. At least his mental acuity hadn't suffered at all.

Her fingertips had changed direction and she now followed the contours of Sherlock's brow, along his eye socket toward those sharp cheekbones.

"Give him time," she said, keeping her voice soft in a bid to lower Sherlock's stress levels.

Rose was fascinated by Sherlock's unshaven skin around his jawline and lips. Prior to this case (she mentally grimaced at the word) the world's only Consulting Detective was more often than not immaculately dressed and groomed. His idea of 'casual clothing' used to be nothing more than his dressing gown worn over his button up shirt and suit trousers. His drug-taking in the last few weeks, the recent shooting and subsequent hospitalisation had shown him in many states of dishevelment and helplessness.

She stroked his bristly cheek then ran her thumb over his soft pout, feeling the beginnings of a moustache above his lips and a beard on his chin. Sherlock hummed at the light brush of her fingertips that followed.

Rose couldn't resist the urge any longer. Cupping his face in her hand, she leant over and pressed her lips to his. Her skin began to shiver in delight when Sherlock's lips parted beneath hers. He tasted divine—familiar and sweet with an underlying restlessness. One of Sherlock's hands had found its way to her nape, and he entwined his fingers into her hair. His other hand circled her waist, slipping underneath her t-shirt and warming her back with soft caresses.

Holding her weight away from Sherlock's body, one hand still found its way into his curls. How long had it been since she'd had all of him? It'd been weeks since they'd been intimate—not since that Thursday she'd spent at Baker Street being pampered by Sherlock. She felt a warm excitement rising in her, but she eased back. Would he want this here and now?

Rose could feel a flush creeping across her cheeks as she propped herself up to take in Sherlock's expression. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes were darkened by arousal.

Sherlock raised one brow and said, "Are you doing your best to distract me?"

Rose's gaze didn't waver. "Not at all," she replied. "This isn't anywhere near my best."

The smile grew on Sherlock's face. His tugged her down again, capturing her lips in his, then trailed his fingers down the length of her spine underneath her shirt. Sherlock seemed to know that she craved to be touched, but this wasn't about her, not tonight.

With his mouth moving avidly beneath hers, Rose slipped her hand underneath Sherlock's pyjama shirt. It glided southward, but paused when Rose became momentarily distracted by Sherlock's own hand. It had left her back and had followed the contours of her body, coming to lightly cup her breast. His light caress heated the blood rushing beneath her skin. She had to put a stop to his efforts. Was she really so naïve as to think any reciprocation on his part would have no effect on her?

"Wait," she said, breathless and dizzy with desire. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"I'm not going to—"

"Shh!"

Her hand slid lower, dipping into his pyjamas until Sherlock emitted his own groan of satisfaction. She longed to feel his mouth against hers again but didn't want him to stir up any more arousal in her. Instead, she lightly nipped along his rough jawline, the smooth expanse of his neck and the tender skin around his ear lobe. Satisfied at hearing Sherlock's soft hums of approval, she rose up onto her knees, rearranged the bedcovers and continued exploring him, her mouth trailing her hands. Sherlock's breathing became ragged and unsteady. Probably a good thing he isn't hooked up to the heart-rate monitor anymore, Rose thought.

She straddled his knees—there wasn't enough room on the bed otherwise—and Sherlock gripped her shoulder in anticipation. Whether he was encouraging her or silently pleading with her to cease and desist she wasn't sure. She wasn't going to allow him to gain the upper hand anyway, not in his condition. And she had work to do.

"Rose..."

It thrilled her to hear his voice so rough and desperate. She didn't stop. Clearly he didn't want her to stop. His hands had dived into her hair, his fingers tangling themselves in the loose strands. Rose knew he was only moments away.

Although she hadn't let Sherlock tend to her needs, the sounds of the jagged edge of his pleasure was powerfully arousing. She brought him luxuriously to the peak until he let her go, his hands flopping back to the mattress.

Rose glanced up at him and climbed from the bed. Sherlock's brow was furrowed and his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. His eyes were closed, but he still managed to fix his pyjamas.

"Are you all right?" she asked, noting his flushed cheeks.

Sherlock's voice was low and gravelly when he responded with a simple, "Yes."

Rose reached out and squeezed his hand.

"I'm going take a shower," she said.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Why?"

"I might need to douse myself with cold water," she said light-heartedly, fixing Sherlock with a wide grin.

"No," he said, and he ran a hand over the sheet. "I'm sorry, Rose. Lie back down. I'm perfectly capable of—"

"No, it's fine, Sherlock." Rose had rounded the bed and she rubbed his arm. "I'm joking. I've worked two jobs today, and I'm on opening the shop tomorrow. I'd really like a shower so I can just crash when I get home." She left his side and headed toward the bathroom. "And you're quite relaxed now. I don't want you to try anything too strenuous. I won't be long."

She heard Sherlock exhale deeply as she closed the bathroom door. She had intended to only have a quick shower, but the warm spray from the hospital's shower nozzle was so strong and soothing that Rose could have stayed there for hours.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair, she noticed how still Sherlock appeared to be. She stealthily approached the bed. His features were soft and his breathing was slow and light. He seemed so peaceful and content that Rose didn't want to wake him by climbing into bed next to him. Besides, her hair was wet and she didn't want to dampen the pillow.

Resigned to her decision, Rose bent over and kissed Sherlock's forehead.

"I love you," she whispered. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

Sherlock didn't stir.


Rose was able to see Sherlock again on Saturday night because Cartwright, one of the porters, had a couple of nightshifts in a row that included this ward. Sherlock was in bed reading a newspaper when she arrived. He carefully folded the paper on his lap and scrutinised Rose through narrow eyes when she approached him.

"Hello," she said, smiling warmly as she discarded her coat at the end of the bed.

Sherlock's expression remained unchanging.

"What happened to you last night? Were you washed down the drain?"

Rose huffed a tiny laugh as she made her way to Sherlock's bedside.

"You were asleep when I came out of the bathroom," she replied.

Sherlock tilted his head in a manner that suggested he believed she was lying.

"Was I," he said, his voice dropping to a challenging pitch. Rose resisted the urge to laugh.

"Yes."

Sherlock began folding up the paper, his mouth turned down at the corners. As he placed the newspaper onto his bedside table, he added, "So you left without saying goodbye."

Rose kept her expression neutral. It wouldn't do to find amusement in Sherlock's over-dramatisation of last night's events. Clearly the man had little else with which to occupy his mind, since he was concocting a conspiracy for the way she had left his company last night.

"I did say goodbye," she replied, slipping off her shoes. "You were fast asleep."

"That doesn't mean you can leave, Rose." Sherlock pulled the bedcovers down for her as she climbed in beside him. "You're supposed to fall asleep next to me. And if you're going to have an entire pampering session in the shower, kindly do it on your own time, not mine."

Sherlock turned from Rose to press the remote control to lower the head of the bed.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Rose said, projecting contrition into her voice. She accepted a pillow from Sherlock and added, with a shrug, "I had a long day yesterday."

Sherlock settled down onto his side and waited for Rose to shuffle alongside him. He said, "And don't think for one second that I want you here just to bring me to orgasm. You are so much more than a receptacle for my penis."

This time a laugh did escape Rose.

"Thank you," she said, chuckling. "That's nice to know. You just seemed a bit... tense, yesterday." She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. After Sherlock had closed his eyes for a little while and the tension had eased from his face, Rose asked, "So how was your day?"

Sherlock sighed deeply before he answered.

"You know how my day was. It's the same every day." He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, prompting Rose to withdraw her hand from his hair. He gazed at the ceiling as he spoke. "John at 9am, either my brother or one of his minions checking in at eleven, Molly Hooper during her lunch break around 1pm, John again after six, Mrs Hudson every two days at midday, and every other day Lestrade at dinner time. And in between these visitors who supposedly care about me, I have the hospital staff and their general busy-body-ness, delivering food or poking me with sticks and asking pointless questions." Sherlock sighed. "And I'm bored reading their past in their collars and socks, and their work history in their eyebrows. I've reduced so many of them to tears it's getting tiresome. My parents will be here tomorrow. Sunday seems to be the day they like travelling to London, apparently. I tried to tell the security service woman outside that they're really terrorists in disguise and they shouldn't be permitted entry, but she won't take me at my word for some reason."

"There's a security service woman outside?"

Sherlock turned his head to make eye contact with Rose. "Yes, Rose. Man, woman, robot. They alternate. How do you not know these things?"

"I've never been stopped and questioned by anybody."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little, as if calculating something. "That's because my brother finds your presence acceptable," he murmured, speaking and deducing at the same time.

Rose's stomach churned at this prospect. Her throat felt tight when she asked, "Does he?"

"They must be conducting surveillance from further along the corridor," Sherlock mused, "allowing you entry unmolested. But they would only be monitoring your comings and goings. Mycroft probably thinks you're here for one purpose only: my happy ending. And if that keeps my spirits up, then he'll happily turn a blind eye. If he had any idea that you previously aided and abetted my last escape then you would've been denied entry. Billy isn't allowed to visit me during the day. He tried once."

"Did he?"

"He's not permitted because he looks like one of my homeless network. I suppose in a way he is."

"Billy? Homeless?"

"I'm being denied my basic human rights, Rose: no mobile phone communication, no people to do my bidding, and no cigarettes. I'm dying for a smoke."

"Wait..." Rose said, her heart beginning to race. "You don't have your phone?"

"No. My brother confiscated it."

"When? Because I've been sending you texts."

"Like what?"

"Nothing really... important. And you never reply, but that's not unusual. Just things like: 'I'll see you soon,' or 'I'm working late. I'll be there at 12:45.'"

"Well, then, you've been texting Mycroft all this time. He took my phone from my belongings as soon as I was re-admitted. As long as you don't write things like 'I've got that ladder you wanted and the van's parked around the corner,' you should be fine."

"I'm pretty sure I don't want you escaping anyway. Not after last time."

Rose had waited days to hear about Sherlock's condition after he'd left her flat for his confrontation with Mary Watson. Rose had dutifully called a taxi when she saw Sherlock entering number 23 Leinster Gardens from her vantage point on the balcony. Billy joined her there, and together they watched as John, Mary, then finally Sherlock exited the empty house, and they all climbed into the waiting cab. It pained Rose to witness Sherlock's careful movements as he made his way across the footpath to the taxi. She left Billy on the balcony to pack away the projector, making excuses that she wanted to fix them both a cup of tea, but in reality, she had wanted to cry in private.

Billy surprised Rose by his ability to organise their hospital infiltration. But she'd had no idea that there was the added difficulty of a security detail provided by Sherlock's omniscient older brother. Did he really know and approve of her coming here because he assumed they were conjugal visits? And did he think she was still a sex worker and was being paid by Sherlock? Rose wasn't sure which aspect of Mycroft Holmes's assumptions she found more appalling.

"I'm perfectly fine, Rose," Sherlock said, rousing her from her thoughts. "I just need to practise walking about, but I should be home by next week sometime."

Sherlock had rolled to his side once more and had extended an arm, inviting Rose to snuggle into him. Rose remained quiet as Sherlock hugged her close.

And then he scoffed.

"What?" she asked, lifting her face toward his.

Sherlock reached up and ran his fingers through a strand of Rose's hair. He wrinkled his nose.

"Your hair smells like that nondescript stuff again."

"Oh," she replied feebly. "Sorry. I ran out of the brand you bought me. I thought I'd finish off what I had at home first before I bought any more. Money's a bit tight at the..."

Rose trailed off, immediately regretting her words. There were so many things she still had to make arrangements for in preparation for becoming a full-time student. While Sherlock had been in hospital, he'd had no idea that Rose had been packing up her things and preparing to house-sit her parents' house when it went on the market. They would be leaving for Scotland soon after she commenced her Forensic Psychology course at the London Metropolitan University. It was only a short-term solution, but it allowed her to live rent-free when her work hours at the home entertainment store were dramatically reduced due to her study hours. She hoped her parents' house would take a while to sell.

"Billy's still got my card," Sherlock said. "Obviously he's using my funds to bribe everyone left, right and centre. Not that I mind, of course. Why don't you use it to buy yourself some groceries?"

"No," Rose replied—far too quickly, she thought in hindsight.

She heard Sherlock lightly sigh.

"Well, there's also your shampoo and soap at my flat. Perhaps you could go around, have a warm bath, and while you're there, collect my laptop to bring here."

Rose smiled a little at Sherlock attempting to sweeten the deal by reminding her about his bathtub.

"I suppose I could do that," she said. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Yes, the mobile phone Billy handed to Mary, if you can find it. I need to get in touch with the outside world again. Although I think Mary pocketed it."

Rose's throat ran dry at the sound of her name.

"Mary," she said. "Has she tried to visit you?"

"No, she's not on Mycroft's list of approved visitors. Although I'm sure she wouldn't have any trouble finding her way in here, if she really wanted to. Don't worry about her. She needs my help more than she needs my silence. And as for my brother…" Sherlock paused, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "I was able to convince him that the shooting was an accident, a misunderstanding… but I have the feeling that there are some things Mycroft knows and others he pretends he doesn't know. Just which is which is anybody's guess and extremely frustrating to think about. I expected him to interfere more than this."

Rose remained silent, lost in her own thoughts about Sherlock's older brother, and Mary Watson, the would-be assassin.

Sherlock leant forward and kissed her forehead.

He cleared his throat and whispered, "Lie back, Rose. You know, there isn't anything wrong with my hands. And I want to treat you to the best hospital visit you've ever had."

.


Author's Note:

Apologies for the long delay in getting this chapter out. I was sorting out my other story.

I tried to keep this chapter light and fluffy, but found it extremely hard to do because of the circumstances under which Sherlock resides.

I hope you enjoyed it anyway! And thanks for continuing to read this story. I appreciate all the follows, favorites, and especially your enthusiastic comments. We're getting closer to the end of series three...