Chapter 65 – We're Just Alike, You and I, Except You're Boring

Rose had the key in her hand by the time she arrived on the doorstep of 221. She had already scanned the length of Baker Street for any obvious signs of someone watching or following her. She quickly let herself in and silently closed the door behind her. Listening carefully, she stood in the entranceway for a few seconds. On hearing no signs of life from within, she slipped off her shoes so she could take the stairs without making the boards creak or reverberate beneath her feet.

Rose concluded that the landlady had retired for the night anyway. It was on half eleven, and she had wanted to take Sherlock up on his suggestion to have a long soak in his bathtub before grabbing his laptop. She would take it home and deliver it to the bored detective in hospital when she visited again.

It had been a few days since she'd last seen Sherlock. Cartwright didn't have another shift until tomorrow, so she had put off going around to Baker Street until the day before her next visit to the hospital. Rose didn't know what had happened to Wilson, the second porter. They didn't seem to have the benefit of his shifts anymore. Perhaps Billy hadn't bribed him enough. And it had seemed odd that neither porter ever had more than a day or two on nightshift. Rose thought that shift workers usually had at least several days in a row, possibly a whole week or two.

Rose pushed through the half-open living room door and was startled to see him. He sat just as he had three years ago: in his armchair in front of the fireplace, barefoot, and staring, unseeing, into space. But this time he was nursing a glass of whiskey.

"Oh," Rose said into the stale air, her heart beating out a new rhythm. "John. Hello."

John Watson barely reacted, only to stare at her through beady, glazed eyes. Suddenly he seemed to register who was stood in front of him. He blinked a couple of times.

"What are you… how did you…" he rasped, then he cleared his throat and started again. "How did you get in here?"

"I have a key," Rose replied. She quickly regained her composure and strode across the rug confidently, despite John's less than cordial reception. Rose deposited her overnight bag onto a living room chair and said, without turning to face John, "Sherlock wants his laptop."

John gave a dry cough behind Rose as she closed up Sherlock's computer that was sitting cold and lifeless on the table.

"What for?" John asked.

You have to ask? Rose thought, carefully winding up the electricity cable.

"Because he's bored," she replied.

She heard Sherlock's best friend snort out a laugh. Rose felt emboldened by her task, and more specifically, by the fact that Sherlock had asked her to fetch his computer and had given her a key to his flat a long time ago. She had every right to be here.

"So how did you get in here?" she asked, parroting John's question back to him.

"I also have a key."

There was no need to ask the man why he was hanging out in Sherlock Holmes's flat rather than spending the night at home with his wife. It was obvious. But she did wonder how often he had been coming here or if he'd been staying all this time.

"D'you… do you visit him in… hospital, then?" John asked, slightly slurring his words. "Outside of visiting hours?"

Rose smiled to herself. This was the longest conversation she'd had with John Watson in three years. It was a pity he was as tanked as he had been the last time.

"Yes," she replied.

"And how much does he pay you to do that?"

And there it was. What had it taken, all of thirty seconds for John Watson to let her know he thought she was still a prostitute? And why would he think otherwise if Sherlock had never told him? What happened to Sherlock's reassurances that Mary would say something to John during the Watsons' honeymoon? Rose hadn't known how she was portrayed through John Watson's eyes. Clearly she was still a sex worker. She felt a fierce heat cross her cheeks.

As she shoved Sherlock's computer into her overnight bag, she wondered if she should even qualify John's question with a response.

"Is it a flat rate?" John probed. "Pay your monthly overheads? So you just... show up to hospital rooms on demand, and Baker Street in between cases." She heard a tiny chuckle escape him. He'd clearly been struck by some other humorous thought. "Weddings... funerals..."

Rose straightened up and turned to meet John's gaze, but he was looking absently at the floor, a tiny smile gracing his lips. Her heart thundered in her chest and she clenched her jaw in readiness for a snappy retort.

Lifting his eyes, John gestured at her with his drink before asking, "Did he give you a month off while he was… doing the maid of honour?"

Rose's insides roiled in anger. John leant back in his chair and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Rose looked down at him, the sad, drunk man. So his heart had been broken? He felt betrayed by the one he loved? Rose could excuse his behaviour due to recent events, but he had also treated her with the same contempt the morning after his wedding, stone cold sober and newly married. He had no excuse for being a rude bastard back then, so why should she make excuses for his behaviour tonight?

On the other hand, Rose was used to this type of aggressive behaviour by people she was offering counselling to. The way they lashed out at her always indicated some deeper problem that had nothing to do with her. Unlike most people Rose had met in the course of her work, she knew what was troubling John Watson.

"He didn't have sex with her," Rose replied, outwardly remaining calm even though her heart thundered along at an alarming rate. "And I'm surprised you of all people believe what's written in the papers about Sherlock Holmes."

John huffed derisively but he had dropped his gaze again. He took one last swig of his drink, draining the glass. Rose zipped up her bag, then moved toward the fireplace. John looked up as if surprised when she sat down in Sherlock's chair. She leant forward as if to confide in him.

"It's quite obvious what you think of me. In fact, the last time you and I spoke, I told you I was a prostitute and that Sherlock had been paying me to have sex with him." John's eyes widened a little at Rose's words and he sat up taller. He seemed just that little bit less inebriated than she had initially thought now that he was focussed on her. Perhaps he was casting his mind back to the time in question. Rose ventured to continue. "That was the truth… at the time. But it's definitely not the case any more. I guess no one has ever set you straight, so I don't blame you for thinking Sherlock's still paying me to be his companion."

"S'what are you saying?"

Rose maintained a steady gaze as she said, "Sherlock and I are in a relationship."

There was a flicker of non-comprehension in John's eyes before lines appeared in his brow.

"You and Sherlock?" he slowly repeated.

"Yes."

John maintained eye contact with Rose for a moment before looking away. He nodded minutely, as if he was digesting that information. He suddenly drew breath and said, "Well, I need another drink."

Rose quickly stood up before John did and said, "I was thinking of putting the kettle on." As she brushed past John's chair, she reached down and swiped up his empty glass. "Tea or coffee?"

She heard John splutter something incoherent as she entered the kitchen.

"Coffee..." He cleared his throat as he stood up. "Yes, I'd better." He made his way into the kitchen. Sighing deeply, he raked a hand over his face and added, "I have to work tomorrow."

He leant heavily onto the kitchen table and folded his arms across his chest, while Rose filled the kettle. She could feel his eyes on her as she busied herself fetching the cups and the cafetière. John seemed to come alive at the moment. He moved forward and opened an overhead cabinet.

"What are you looking for?" Rose asked as she retrieved the packet of ground coffee from the shelf above her.

"Oh," John said, eyeing the packet in her hands. "It's over there now." He gave her a sheepish grin. "It moved."

"Did it?" Rose turned her attention back to the cups. "I usually make tea, so I wouldn't know."

As Rose filled the cafetière, John walked over to the fridge and retrieved the milk.

"So... um," he said, returning to her side. He deposited the milk onto the counter beside the mugs and said, "How long has this been going on for... if you don't mind me asking."

John's polite qualification initially threw Rose.

"What... us?"

"Your... relationship."

Rose noted the change in John's tone, compared to when she had first entered the flat. It had grown softer. He was speaking to her like a normal person.

"Not long," she replied, feeling her eyes beginning to prickle. She kept her head down and slowly dunked a tea bag into her mug. "I mean, it just sort of grew out of... out of... what we once had. Since Christmas, I suppose."

John was silent again. He had moved back to lean against the table.

"And so how long had... that other thing... been going on for? I know, it's... probably none of my business."

Rose clenched her jaw and blinked back tears. It was so long ago. She thought about her time as a university under-graduate—the study groups and workshops, the endless readings, presentations, case-studies and essays; and then of her alter-ego: Shelley, the prostitute, and the brothel in North London. She didn't know why conjuring up images of her and Sherlock's past together seemed to upset her more often these days. She surmised it was because of Charles Augustus Magnussen and what he could expose about her.

"Um..." she began, slowly stirring milk into her tea. "It didn't go on for too long." She retrieved a teaspoon from the drawer and added, "I don't mind telling you. I just don't want you to think I'm a sex worker any more."

John forced out a cough and shuffled uneasily behind her.

"I've known Sherlock for years now," he began, "and I can't recall a time when…" John paused to inhale deeply. "…when he would even need that sort of thing. He always gave the impression that he could get along without it."

An image sprang to Rose's mind: Sherlock lying on the bed in the brothel next to a naked woman, Shelley the prostitute, completely flaccid and saying to her, moving right along to the part where we have sex. A tiny smile graced her lips. And then she conjured up the recent memory of Sherlock lying in his hospital bed, a petulant frown on his face, asking her to lie down beside me and do nice things to me.

She huffed an almost silent laugh to herself. Out loud, she said, "I guess he changed." She gestured to the cafetière beside her and asked, "Do you think that's ready?"

John approached the kitchen counter and pushed down the plunger. Rose removed the tea bag from her tea as John poured the coffee into his mug. She asked him if he'd like any sugar, to which he declined.

Rose made her way back into the living room, leaving John to return the milk to the fridge. As Rose took her first sip of tea, John approached the chairs and hesitated beside his.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what would have changed in Sherlock that led him to..." John gestured weakly toward Rose. "And why I didn't notice."

Rose shrugged as John took his seat opposite her. Did he need to understand? Rose thought. But she could see that pondering Sherlock's enigmatic sexual history was a welcome distraction for John Watson at this time.

"A case, maybe?" she volunteered. "Perhaps he saw a woman in the street and had... stirrings." Rose couldn't help but smile to herself at an imaginary Sherlock Holmes doing a double-take as some random sultry female sauntered by him, but John just took a sip of his coffee, his brow furrowed in thought.

"When was this?" he asked.

"When was what?"

"When he first... you know..."

Rose slowly sipped her tea. It was all a bit of a blur. She remembered the encounter; it was totally unforgettable: Sherlock Holmes and his huge presence, his strange, probing questions, and his indifference to her as a sexual being.

"I think it was..." she began, "...early spring. Yes, definitely. I was sitting in the little room off the parlour, trying to come up with an outline for my final essay..."

John tipped his head quizzically as Rose spoke.

"...Psychology," she added, smiling briefly. "My final year." He nodded, but offered no comment on her addendum. "And it was a slow night. Tuesdays often are." John squirmed uncomfortably. "And then Sherlock Holmes strolled in, asking Cynthia for an English girl who was moderately intelligent." Rose smiled at John, thinking that she should omit the part about Sherlock saying his name was 'John.'

"Strolled in?" John repeated, squinting a little. "Where was this?"

"The brothel I worked in," Rose replied, her smile fading. "In North London."

John blinked several times, his expression becoming animated.

"A brothel?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock Holmes visited a brothel?"

"What's your point exactly?"

John just slowly shook his head. "I just thought... he'd ring up for a... a... you know. Somebody more... high-brow. A call girl, or high-class escort or... something. Someone who'd visit him."

A cold hand gripped Rose's heart, as ripples of shame radiated outwards. Dirty, worthless, degraded. A whore. Her mouth ran dry and she felt her skin prickling. She didn't know why she had suddenly reacted like this. It was the same feeling she'd had after encountering Chantal, her ex co-worker from the brothel, as she walked by a bus stop and had been reminded in very graphic terms what it was like to be a prostitute. And not just any prostitute. On the hierarchy of sex workers, a worker in a brothel didn't rate as highly as an expensive call girl.

John seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil. He smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Rose couldn't look at him. She stared into the lifeless fireplace and tried to force herself to speak.

"It's... okay," she said, her voice tight and strained. "I don't know why Sherlock chose a brothel either." She could feel John studying her in the silence that stretched before them. "Perhaps it was because you were here," she added, finally dragging her gaze back to him.

He nodded thoughtfully.

"But I did end up coming here eventually," she said.

John's eyebrows shot up. "You did?"

"Don't you remember, the first time we met?"

John just stared at her, his eyes narrowing in thought. Slowly he turned his gaze toward the sofa and studied it for a few seconds.

"But..." he said, after a fashion. He looked back at her. "We sat over there, and I told you all about Sherlock's cases."

Despite Rose's previous ill-feelings toward her past occupation, a smile just begged to stretch across her lips.

"And now the penny drops," she said.

John's jaw dropped open.

"Were you... did you..." He stared at the sofa again, as if he'd find the answers there. She could see by his darting eyes that he was attempting to reassemble all his memories of the time they had first been introduced.

She couldn't help it. Rose burst out laughing, her own recall of the awkwardness of the afternoon bubbling to the surface. John initially regarded her as if she were mad, but she could see his face softening and the corners of his mouth curving upwards. Eventually, her raucous laughter faded to a chuckle. When she could manage to speak again, she said, "I had no idea why you were here. Apparently you'd come home unexpectedly from work, and then you said you'd sit at the back and take notes."

She started laughing once more, John's stunned expression setting her off again.

"Wait... what?" he said. "But..."

Rose eventually composed herself. John's face told her he in was in the middle of another discovery.

"But..." he continued to stammer. He narrowed his eyes at her. And then he pointed. "You asked for me... If you had no idea I'd be here, then why did you say you had an appointment with John?"

Rose just sat back and stared at the man, a fixed grin on her face, willing him to make the connection. When his mouth formed a small 'o', she knew he'd got there.

"The bastard!" he said, shooting out of his chair. "The fucking bastard!"


"I wasn't always a prostitute. I didn't just wake up one day and decide that fucking men for money would be my ideal career."

Rose held her tea cup to her temple. The inside sloshed a little with scotch whiskey. She didn't notice; her eyes were heavy with sleep.

"So why did you do it?" John asked, picking at a thread on his shirt.

"I think I'd reached the lowest point in my life. It's stupid really. I can't believe I made that decision and thought it wouldn't affect me in the future. I needed the money. There you go. It's that simple and that stupid."

The conversation had moved on to Rose's career aspirations, her aborted attempt at a traineeship in Cardiff, and her random mix of jobs over the years. John had recounted Sherlock's cases again. Rose knew the facts of each case from the notes she took years ago, but this time John recalled them from the perspective of Sherlock-the-human, rather than Sherlock-the-calculating-machine. John had shocked Rose with the confession that he had shot and killed the taxi driver who had been responsible for the serial suicides a few years back. Rose surprised herself that she was able to get John to open up and talk about how he felt about that.

After a period of silence where they both quietly sipped at their whiskeys, John stated, "Early spring, you said." He was staring absently into the air, his head having lolled onto the back of his chair.

"What?"

"When Sherlock visited you in the brothel."

"Oh. Yes. Quite early. Definitely March."

"I can see it now," John mused.

"See what?"

"When the change happened."

Rose struggled to sit up straighter through the dizziness brought about by her alcohol consumption.

"What happened?"

Rose watched John's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Had he fallen asleep with his eyes open? She had dated a guy who did that once. But eventually John lifted his whiskey glass to his lips and paused long enough to say, "She really did a number on him."

Rose wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. She?

"What? Who?"

"The Woman," he said through narrow eyes.

"What woman?"

"The Woman."

Rose didn't understand the distinction, and her senses were too dulled to feel apprehensive about John's statement.

"Who? What did she do to him?"

John chuckled lightly. He rested his glass on his chest and he regarded Rose through beady eyes.

"She was a dominatrix."

Rose's head was buzzing now. She couldn't fully comprehend John's words. A dominatrix? Sherlock?

Before she even knew what she was volunteering, she murmured, "But he hates being tied up."

John gaped, then snorted out a laugh. Rose cringed, realising her admission. When she had tied one of his wrists to the bed post on the night of John's wedding, she had thought Sherlock was upset because she had triggered unpleasant memories of being tortured somewhere in Eastern Europe. Had he been tormented by a dominatrix instead?

John struggled to curb his laughter. He wiped away tears and stopped chuckling long enough to say, "She didn't do anything to him, not in that way."

"Maybe that was his problem," Rose said, scowling.

"Yes. Maybe. She did flirt at him a lot, but he didn't seem affected at the time. His brother made some comment about Sherlock not knowing anything about sex at the start of the case. That may have contributed to it as well."

"Did he? What an arsehole."

"He has his moments."

"I don't like that man."

"Have you met him?"

Rose involuntarily shivered. "Yes," she replied.

"Did he kidnap you?"

"What? No."

Rose stared at John, trying to ascertain whether he was joking or not.

"Did he offer you money to spy on Sherlock?" he asked.

John had posed the question so casually that Rose knew he wasn't joking about this either. What kind of brother did Sherlock have? The poor man!

"Not exactly," she replied.

"Not exactly?" John asked, straightening up a little in his chair.

"He tried to bribe me with ten thousand pounds to stay away from Sherlock."

"Ten thousand pounds?" John sank back into his seat. "Why didn't I get that deal," he muttered. "But in conclusion, I deduce that it was this case that drove him to it."

"Because she was a dominatrix?"

"Because she beat him. And I think he let some part of her get to him. I think he was confused by her womanly wiles. And then shortly after the case, all of a sudden he decides he wants to have sex like a regular person. Well, not really a regular person. We don't all go to brothels."

The creases in Rose's brow deepened. Did Sherlock go to a brothel in search of a dominatrix? She recalled that he didn't seem to know what he wanted. Vanilla sex was what he got in the end, and he didn't waver from that for ages.

Rose placed her drink down onto a side table and crossed her arms in front of her.

"Well, I don't think you're qualified to make that assessment, Doctor Watson."

"No, no, I guess not," John replied, laughing a little. "You're the psychologist after all."

"And I don't think we should talk about Sherlock's sex life any more. It's private."

"You started it," John said, gulping down the last of his whiskey.

"No. You started it."

"I did, didn't I? Sorry about that."

John chuckled again, then attempted to stifle a yawn. He slowly rose to his feet, stretched and then checked his watch.

"Christ, I have to go to work in a few hours."

Rose stood up beside him and swayed lightly.

"So do I."

John stopped and scrutinised her.

"You're very drunk. You should've stopped at tea."

"I'll be fine," she replied, touching a hand to her forehead.

John reached down to pick up his glass. His fingers slipped, and the glass tumbled to the rug. Luckily, it didn't break.

"Look at the pot calling the kettle black," Rose said. "I'd hate to be one of your patients tomorrow." She chuckled lightly as she took her own cup to the kitchen.

John followed her in, saying, "And I'd hate to... to receive an invoice from you tomorrow."

Rose laughed a little along with John. She washed both their cups as John returned the bottle of whiskey to the top shelf.

As she was drying her hands on a tea towel, John said, "You're not thinking of travelling all the way back to Bayswater at this hour?"

Rose was originally going to return home after her long soak in the tub, but her plans for the night had gone a bit askew.

"Oh, no, I guess I'll just sleep here for a bit and leave before sunrise," she said, gesturing toward the back of the flat. "Unless... you're not in Sherlock's room are you?"

"Christ, no," John replied. "That would be... weird. No. I'm back upstairs."

He smiled wanly, the unspoken reason for his being here hanging awkwardly in the air.

"Okay, then," Rose said, smiling reassuringly. "Well, goodnight."

"'Night," John bid her and she turned to leave. "Oh. Rose."

Rose turned back to face him. She didn't think she'd ever heard John say her name before. It didn't sound odd; it sounded... nice.

John had shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and he rocked on the balls of his feet. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry for the way I treated you before." His voice had grown husky as he spoke in a low tone. "I may have been projecting my anger onto you, when it was really about Sherlock not trusting me with something else."

Rose felt warmed by John's sentiment, but she couldn't leave him thinking it was all Sherlock's doing.

"Thank you, John," she said. "But it wasn't Sherlock's fault. It was all me, actually. I didn't want anybody to know about us. He really wanted to tell you, but I put my foot down."

John nodded and attempted to smile at Rose, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.

"People and their dark and sinister secrets," he said.

He locked his eyes with hers and Rose knew he was no longer talking about her and Sherlock. She took a step forward and laced her fingers together in front of her.

"I'm really ashamed and embarrassed about my past, John." His shoulders seemed to droop, possibly with his own burdens, but perhaps he was as tired and mentally exhausted as she felt and he didn't want to hear this right now. "I received counselling for it," she continued anyway, "and Sherlock's been really supportive." She felt a build-up of pressure behind her eyes, and she dropped her gaze for a moment. "I don't know what I'd do without his love, really." Her voice crackled a little but she braved a glance at John. His eyes had widened minutely. She was probably speaking words that had never been associated with Sherlock Holmes before. She offered John a tiny smile before continuing.

"But if we keep dwelling on the past, we'd never have a future together. Sherlock doesn't have a problem with it, but I do. He has hopes for our future..." She drifted off, recalling Sherlock's enthusiastic suggestion that she move into Baker Street with him. Her heart felt heavy, and all she wanted to do at that moment was curl up with Sherlock in his bed. "Anyway," she said, attempting to rouse herself from her morose thoughts as John continued to silently study her, "I'm working on it." She sighed, and felt overwhelmingly lost. "So... we'd better get some sleep. Thank you, John."

This time he gave her a proper smile. He nodded at her and said, "Good night, Rose."

"'Night, John."


Rose was disappointed to find Sherlock fast asleep when she slipped into his room. She quietly stowed his laptop into the low cabinets by the door. She removed her shoes and stood by the bed, looking down at him. He was lying on his side as far over to the edge of the bed as he could manage without falling off. He had made room for her. Rose felt a pang of guilt. Did he actually know what nights she would show up, or did he sleep that way every night in anticipation?

Rose yawned widely. She was exhausted after her lack of sleep and drinking session with John Watson the night before, then having to spend an entire day—luckily a late shift—at the home entertainment store, finishing off with a few hours counselling at the ASXX. She had hoped Sherlock would be well enough to leave hospital any day now. It was already halfway through the week in which he'd said he would be discharged.

She drew the sheet down a little and climbed in beside Sherlock. She was relieved that he stirred a little.

"Hello," she whispered, leaning over him to plant a kiss onto his temple.

"Mm."

"I'm here."

"Obviously."

Rose settled down beside him. He felt warm, his pyjamas soft against her bare arms, and he was still unshaven.

"I saw John last night," she said, running her fingers over his jaw.

"I know."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed and his warm breath fluttered across her cheek.

"He was here this morning."

"Oh," Rose replied, emitting a light chuckle. Of course John had visited him. "How was he?"

"He was very chatty," Sherlock added, his eyes still shut. "And hungover."

Rose laughed lightly and wondered if Sherlock had deduced that about John, or if John had told him.

"I brought your laptop," she said.

When Sherlock didn't react at all, she called his name again. Rose could see Sherlock's brow furrow in the half-light of the reading lamp.

"Just let me sleep," he said eventually, his voice making him sound exhausted.

Rose felt a little disappointed, although she knew she would fall asleep in an instant herself. She closed her eyes, pressed a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, then nestled into his warm embrace.

Her alarm sounded the two hour mark far too quickly as far as Rose was concerned. She had to pry her eyes open. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. His arms were still banded around her, and she felt as if she had fallen asleep in a furnace.

"Sherlock," she said, disentangling herself. She climbed out of bed and went to pull the sheet back over him when she saw him shiver. She reached out and touched his arm. His skin was on fire. "Sherlock," she said again. He hummed non-committedly in response. "You're burning up."

Sherlock didn't respond except to pull the sheet up higher.

"How are you feeling?"

He didn't answer. Pointless question anyway, she thought.

She arranged the heavier blanket over him, her insides twisting when she saw him shudder again. Rose hastened to straighten out her clothes and put her shoes on.

Leaning over him, she whispered, "I'm going to press the call button, okay, and get you a nurse."

She pulled her jacket on, then opened the door, cautiously peering out to check if she had a clear exit. She came back to Sherlock's bedside and kissed his temple again. His skin immediately heated her lips.

"I love you," she whispered, then she pressed the call button and high-tailed it out of there.


Rose immediately felt bad for yelling at Billy. It wasn't his fault that both porters no longer appeared to work at the hospital. Rose had come to the conclusion that Sherlock's older brother had manipulated the shifts of the workers to only give her sporadic access. She suspected that Sherlock had succumbed to an infection and was very sick, prompting the overbearing sibling to cut off her visiting rights altogether. Did one man really have the power to do that?

"What about the cleaner?" she asked Billy. "The woman who helped us the first time?"

"I dunno, Rosie. I'll 'ave-ta check."

Rose quickly thanked Billy, and apologised again for yelling at him. She ended the call then left the guest bedroom to join the rest of the party in the communal area at the back of her parents' house. It had been one long, torturous week, living with her parents while they packed up their belongings for Scotland. As of tomorrow evening, she'd have the place to herself. Their house was on the market, and Rose hoped it wouldn't sell for a while. She really didn't have any plans for accommodation once that happened.

She didn't feel sad about leaving Leinster Gardens. The bad memories there started to outweigh the good memories anyway. She didn't think she'd even miss Tonya Small. Rose's relationship with The Clarence House Cannibal had become a bit strained; Tonya's disappointment that Rose didn't stay broken up with Sherlock Holmes was evident in the thinning of her lips and her pointed silence whenever Rose mentioned him or his condition.

Rose used the last of her reserves to socialise with her parents' friends and neighbours for the rest of the evening. She woke early, helped her mother clean up the last of the party mess, and finally farewelled her parents when their taxi arrived after lunch. She made promises to visit them at Christmas time, then collapsed in an exhausted heap on the sofa downstairs.

It was two days before Billy got back to her with a way in. He'd found a new cleaner, but the man could only let Rose onto the ward after 2am. Rose conceded that she'd take what she could get.

That night, she crept into Baker Street just after eleven. Sherlock's flat was closer to the hospital and she didn't want to make the journey so late at night from her parents' house. She didn't encounter John Watson, nor was there any sign that he'd been there. She slept in Sherlock's bed until one thirty, then grabbed a cab. She was surprised at how awake she felt. Her skin prickled with anticipation at seeing Sherlock after almost a week away.

The ward was as still and quiet as it usually was, 2am being the time she would normally have left. When she slipped into Sherlock's room, she half-hoped he'd be standing by the window, a stern look on his face, and offering a dry quip about why she'd taken so long to visit him again.

But the room was horribly sterile and unwelcoming. Sherlock was fast asleep, lying flat on his back—no room for her—one arm across his chest, and the other by his side. But that wasn't what caused her heart to leap into her throat. Sherlock had what Rose assumed was a morphine drip attached once more to his left arm. There were tubes extending out of his neck, a blood pressure cuff encircling his right arm and a clamp attached to one finger and connected to a heart-rate monitor. And he was wearing a hospital gown.

Oh, Sherlock, she thought, a heavy weight descending on her. What's happened to you?