Chapter 66 – I've Been Thinking About You

Rose quickly hung up the phone. Of course it was Mary Watson. Who else would answer with "This is Mary."

Rose's plan to phone John Watson to find out about Sherlock's condition had failed for the second time. The first was when she made yet another visit to Baker Street. The doctor wasn't in. She thought she'd ring his surgery from the landline in her office, but lost her nerve when Mary answered the phone.

Her last visit to see Sherlock hadn't ended very well. Clearly she had been dropped from the authorised visitor list and had migrated to the Naughty List. Just as she was approaching Sherlock's bed, a female voice behind her said, "Ms Sulford. You aren't permitted to be in here."

"Just give me a minute," she'd said, in a voice strained with emotion. Her stomach dropped at hearing the intrusive request, but otherwise, she tried to remain outwardly calm at the woman's words.

She curled her fingers around Sherlock's, but the security officer had come up right behind her. She spoke to Rose in a low voice.

"If you wish to remain anonymous and not make a scene, then you will leave with me now. If you don't then I will not hesitate to call hospital security and your identity will be revealed."

"Why can't you give me a minute?" Rose asked, without turning around.

"You don't have security clearance."

Rose reached out and drew aside a strand of hair from Sherlock's forehead.

"Ms Sulford."

"Sherlock," she whispered, willing him to wake up.

"Ms Sulford."

"Okay. All right."

Rose bent down and pressed her lips to Sherlock's forehead. She whispered, "I'll be back soon."

His only reaction was a tiny furrowing of his brow. Rose wanted to stay and wait for him to wake. Surely he'd send this woman packing.

"Ms Sulford."

Rose had rapidly become tired of hearing her own name. Finally, she heaved out a sigh before turning to follow the well-groomed, presumably MI5, agent out of the room. Suddenly she stopped short.

"If you know who I am," she said as the agent paused in the doorway, "then you'll know how important I am to Sherlock."

The agent raised an eyebrow, signalling that she, herself, did not care. She stood to one side, and gestured through the doorway.

"I'm sure Mycroft Holmes cares," Rose muttered as she preceded the agent into the corridor. "When will I be allowed to visit again?"

"That won't be possible."

Rose halted once more.

The agent turned to her and said, "Ms Sulford, please don't make a scene. You will be the only one who regrets it if you do."

With a heavy heart, Rose allowed herself to be escorted from the hospital. She knew the agent had a point. It was only Rose who worried that anybody might identify her and connect her to the famous Sherlock Holmes. She was desperate to see him, but would she be willing to risk her own privacy?

As she left, she wondered if she would ever be permitted to see Sherlock again.


"I'm sorry, Rosie," Billy said over the phone the next morning. "I am workin' on it."

Rose bid her friend a goodbye and ended the call. She stared at her unappealing chicken salad and threw herself back into her work for the rest of the day.

A week later, having heard nothing positive from Billy, she stood on the step outside 221 Baker Street once more, slightly sodden from the sudden downpour. But this time, she had an alternate plan.

Rose had kept herself busy, concentrating fully on work, taking extra shifts, giving Gus afternoons off. It was astounding how little the man actually did around the office and how little she noticed when he wasn't there. With no rent to pay now that she was looking after her parents' house, Rose's savings were growing steadily.

But each evening, with the exception of the nights she offered counselling, Rose worried about Sherlock and his health, and how she would be able to gain access to see him. Surely he'd been in hospital long enough?

It was only early evening and Rose had taken her usual precautions in navigating to Baker Street and ensuring her identity was adequately covered. She pitied anyone who ever had to maintain an undercover surveillance in these conditions. But this time, Rose didn't use her key. She reached out and pressed the doorbell for 221A.

She was relieved to find that there was a flicker of recognition on the face of Sherlock's landlady.

"Mrs Hudson, hello," Rose said.

"Oh, hello, love. I'm afraid he's not in. I'm sorry to say, but I have bad news."

"Oh, I know what's happened and where he is," Rose replied, smiling reassuringly. "'I actually wanted to ask you how he was doing. I'm not permitted to visit him."

Mrs Hudson scowled and ushered Rose inside and out of the weather.

"Yes, I know all about those security measures," she said once she'd closed the door behind her visitor. "I still have to show ID every time I visit. You think they'd know who I was by now."

"So, how's Sherlock?" Rose asked, failing miserably at keeping her patience.

"Why don't you come and have a nice cup of tea. Warm you up a bit," the landlady said, gesturing toward the back of her flat.

Rose reluctantly removed her coat and followed Mrs Hudson into her kitchen. She'd been there late last year when she was avoiding John Watson and had confessed to the older woman that she was Sherlock's counsellor.

"I expect he'd need someone to talk to after this experience," Mrs Hudson said to her in a low voice. She continued bustling about the kitchen as she spoke. "He's always getting himself into mischief." The landlady chuckled to herself. "I remember one time…"

Rose politely listened to Mrs Hudson's stories about Sherlock and John's adventures together as she sipped her tea. Rose had heard about most of their cases, but it was interesting hearing the landlady tell them from her sometimes limited and colourful perspective.

"And how is he coping with being cooped up on a hospital ward?" Rose finally asked, when she was able to get a word in again.

"Oh, the silly lump. Not very well, I'm afraid. He keeps trying to escape."

"Escape?"

"Yes." Mrs Hudson's hand went to her chest. "The first time he actually managed to leave the hospital and he hid somewhere in central London. Nobody could find him for hours. I have no idea where he ended up. They were all out checking his usual bolt holes, even that nice detective from Scotland Yard. Behind the clock face of Big Ben, I suggested, but I don't think John believed me. How he could climb all those steps in his condition… Well, finally he came here with John and Mary and collapsed. They should've taken him straight to hospital when they found him, instead of coming here to have their little domestic. So thoughtless. He was very lucky the ambulance arrived so quickly." Mrs Hudson leant forward and whispered conspiratorially. "He went into cardiac arrest. Nearly died, again! He's got nine lives that man. Well…" She paused to chuckle. "Not anymore. But who's keeping count?"

"And how is he now?" Rose asked.

"Oh, he was fine in hospital for a while, but then he came down with a nasty infection."

Rose already knew about this, but that was nearly two weeks ago. Surely they had it under control by now?

"And when do they expect he'll be out?" she asked the landlady.

"Not for a while, love. Not if he keeps trying to escape."

"He's not a prisoner, is he?"

Rose wondered if Sherlock had actually managed to leave the hospital grounds again and if the Security Services were keeping him in as much as keeping others out. If he had left, then this time he hadn't involved either her or Billy.

"They found him wandering the corridors a couple of times, getting himself lost. Said he was trying to go outside for a smoke. Not that he had any cigarettes on him. Another time they caught him attempting to use a computer in the nurses' station."

Rose gave Mrs Hudson a grim smile.

"So, he's up and about," she asked, "and walking around now? Have you seen him?"

"No, love. He keeps relapsing because of his silly jaunts out of bed. Mr Holmes won't allow any visitors in at the moment. Germs, you know."

Rose's shoulders drooped a little in defeat. Yes, she knew all about Mr Holmes and his visitor restrictions. She quickly drained the rest of her tea and asked Mrs Hudson if she could let her know when Sherlock was able to receive visitors again. She gave the landlady her mobile number and thanked her for the tea before leaving.


Sherlock eyed his brother's stiff back as the man turned to regard the row of newly delivered flowers that were arranged on the low cabinets by the door. Sherlock resisted the urge to throw something at him.

"I want to see her," he said. Surely if he said it enough times, Mycroft would acquiesce. Constant badgering used to work when he was seven, and he didn't see why he couldn't employ the same technique now.

"And you know why I won't allow it," Mycroft said calmly as he scanned each bouquet for the accompanying get well soon cards.

"That's a load of rubbish, and you know it. I should be allowed any visitors I want at the time I want them."

Mycroft turned and fixed Sherlock with a thin-lipped smile.

"Not past your bedtime." Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but Mycroft continued anyway. "Such nocturnal antics are probably what caused your infection in the first place."

"There were no antics," Sherlock said, his insides roiling at the thought of Mycroft speculating on what he and Rose got up to. "We sleep together…" Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted to make it sound as innocent as Rose's visits actually were—except for that one time. "She… falls asleep. We chat and we sleep. She isn't here any more than two hours and that's spent mostly sleeping."

Sherlock could tell by Mycroft's imperceptible narrowing of the eyes that he couldn't understand why Sherlock would want someone to sleep next to. The man had no idea what a great comfort it was to fall asleep with Rose Sulford curled up into him, breathing her scent, feeling her warm breath on his neck. Sherlock's heart rate would slow, dopamine would flood his central nervous system. What would the pompous arse know about any of that?

"Your sleep is broken," Mycroft said, moving toward the bed. "You're supposed to be recuperating, and an extended period of unbroken sleep is very important for your recovery."

"She's not even here every night thanks to you!"

"Sherlock."

"I want to see her!"

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps when we're allowing you to have visitors again, she can come during visiting hours, like everybody else." Ah, thought Sherlock. He's almost caving in. "I'll see to it that she is permitted to enter. Under supervision."

"Under supervision?" Sherlock repeated, aghast. "And you know why she can't come during the day."

"Then perhaps she isn't a suitable companion after all."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother and said, "What would you know about suitable companions? You believe you exist in a world full of goldfish. How lonely is that?"

Sherlock knew he'd hit a raw nerve when Mycroft clenched his jaw. However his brother recomposed himself fairly quickly.

Mycroft said, "Well, it looks like you're in better spirits."

"I'm really not."

"I'll have Molly Hooper call in at her earliest convenience. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to share photographs of postmortems with you again. That should keep you amused for a while."

Sherlock huffed a sigh. His brother wasn't cooperating out of guilt as much as he did when they were younger. He needed Mycroft to be negligent again, just so he'd give Sherlock everything he wanted out of pity.

"At least bring me my computer," Sherlock said. "It's on my desk at home."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a tiny smile. "Your laptop is missing," he said casually. "Not that I would allow you to have it. I wouldn't want any enticing cases luring you prematurely out of your hospital bed."

Sherlock frowned. That didn't make sense.

"Then where is it?" he asked.

"Perhaps you left it at Ms Sulford's residence?"

Thoughts flitted through Sherlock's mind. His laptop was no longer at home. Somebody had taken it. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his Mind Palace were snippets of his and Rose's last conversation before he succumbed to an infection.

"Leave," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "You're boring me."

So, his laptop was here, he thought in smug satisfaction. And Mycroft knows nothing about it.


A few days after Rose had visited Baker Street, she received a text from Mrs Hudson.

You know who can have visitors, was the landlady's not-so-cryptic message.

That was all well and good, Rose thought, relieved that Sherlock was on the mend, but she and Billy still hadn't organised a way in. She sent a brief thanks to Mrs Hudson, and continued with her work.

It was on a beautifully crisp late summer's morning—too lovely to be hidden away in the back office of a home entertainment store—when Rose received an email from Sherlock Holmes. The very short message requested her to meet him for 'lunch' at 10am in an Italian restaurant just around the corner from the hospital. Rose's heart somersaulted in her chest. Could he be out already? But why would he ask her to meet him in such a public place, in broad daylight? Why didn't he just come around to hers in the evening?

Rose checked the time on her computer. It was a little after nine and Gus wasn't due in until eleven. She could duck out now and meet Sherlock and be back before that idiot even noticed anything. But… lunch? At 10am? She knew she had to trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing, and anyway, she really wanted to see him.

Rose knew she had to leave immediately if she wanted to get across the city in time. She set a call forward on her office phone to her mobile in case any urgent calls came in. Mornings were usually busy in terms of queries from corporate customers, and after all, she was still the responsible employee in accounts.

At two minutes past ten, Rose crossed the road for the restaurant Sherlock had specified in his message. The lights inside were dim, and it looked closed from the outside. Just then, her phone began to ring. Rose checked the caller ID and knew it was a delicate client in Slough. She accepted the call and spoke to the Office Manager as she paced along the footpath outside the restaurant. After a minute or so, while she listened patiently to the manager's tales of financial difficulty, a waiter from the restaurant opened the door and gestured for her to enter.

This Rose did while she still spoke on the phone to her client. As her eyes adjusted to the lighting in the restaurant, she spied a figure sitting at the back. The premises were deserted except for the tables set for the lunch clientele and the waiter who had resumed his duties behind the bar. Rose gave Sherlock a tiny wave as she attempted to wrap up her call.

A lead weight had materialised in the pit of her stomach at the sight of Sherlock. She only half-listened to her caller, but she gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. But what was he up to, she thought. Clearly he was meant to be in hospital. The man still had his morphine drip attached and he was wearing a hospital gown for Christ's sake! At least he was clean-shaven, she noted.

"Thank you," Rose said, exhaling impatiently. "I'll check your account and see if we can make any adjustments for you. I'll ring you back this afternoon."

She ended the call as she slowly approached Sherlock.

"Hello," he said, a broad smile gracing his features.

"My God."

"Not quite."

"Sherlock." His eyes were a little bit glassy, so Rose assumed he wasn't exactly firing on all four cylinders. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock's expression became crestfallen at her less-than-enthusiastic greeting.

"I was going to have lunch with you."

"It's a bit early for lunch and I was at work."

Sherlock just stared at her, tiny creases appearing in his brow as if he didn't quite comprehend what she was saying or why she wasn't happy to see him. Rose immediately slipped into the chair at the intimate table set for two, to keep their conversation at a discreet level. She placed her phone down onto the table.

"You shouldn't be here," she said.

"What happened to my hello kiss?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth were turned down at the edges causing Rose's expression to soften. She immediately slipped out of her chair and bent over the table. Sherlock tilted his head up and met her lips with his. It was merely a perfunctory kiss; Rose felt completely self-conscious, although she was sure the waiter was keeping himself occupied on purpose.

As she sat down once more, she asked, "Why are you here?"

"I was hungry," he replied languidly. "The food in the canteen is awful, and I wanted to see you."

Rose's heart twinged as Sherlock reached across the table for her hand.

"This is madness," she managed to say, but she curled her fingers around his anyway. "How did you get here?"

Rose had noted Sherlock's coat draped over the back of his chair. Sherlock removed his hand from hers and reached over to turn off his morphine drip.

"I emailed Billy as well," he replied. "He came dressed as a porter and wheeled me right past the nurses' station." A smile played on Sherlock's lips as he spoke. "It's a curious thing: the confidence of a thief, and how little attention people pay to a theft occurring right under their noses."

"Meaning the theft of Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's smile answered Rose's question for him.

"Do you want to eat?" he asked, leaning forward. "I'm thinking of something from the specials board."

"No. It's a bit early for me," Rose said as Sherlock looked up and gave a nod to the waiter. "And I have to get back shortly. The phone won't stop ringing."

"Don't you have… that guy… thingummy… to help?"

"Gus?" Rose said, heaving out a sigh. "He's useless." As if on queue, her phone began to ring again. "Sorry, I have to get this. It'll be work."

Rose grabbed her phone from the table, and stood as she answered it. She moved away from Sherlock who was now talking to the waiter about the specials. She quickly navigated the conversation through the usual queries about corporate orders and managed to end the call just as the waiter had left the table.

"Look, I have to get back by eleven," she said, resuming her seat. "So I'll be leaving very shortly."

"Lunch will be served quite soon. The service is excellent. Are you sure you don't want to eat? I can call him back."

"No, Sherlock, it's fine."

Sherlock reached for Rose's hand again. Rose noted that the waiter had removed her table setting. She felt a bit silly. It was almost like a romantic candlelit dinner for two, without the candle. And the dinner.

And her romantic partner was wearing a hospital gown and was high on morphine.

"So, I was thinking," Sherlock said, running his thumb over the back of Rose's hand. "I really have to do something about Gus."

"What?"

"Gus, you know. He's causing you so much stress. It's not good for you."

Rose furrowed her brow at Sherlock and tried to see past his glazed eyes.

"Don't… don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"But you're unhappy at work. I've always noticed and I've never done anything about it.

"It's not up to you to do anything about Gus. He's just a work colleague… a dickhead loser. I can deal with him myself." She gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze. "Look, Sherlock, I just want you to get better. Can you do that? Stay in hospital, rest up, get the medical attention you need."

"I can't do that," he replied, removing his hand from hers. "I've got work to do."

"I don't want you to do anything about Gus."

"Not Gus. That's just a little thing I can do for you on the side."

"Sherlock, don't do anything—"

"I'm still working on the Magnussen case."

Rose thought she was hearing things.

"What?"

Sherlock leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Magnussen has something on Mary, too," he said in a voice pitched low. "I think if I can get him to—"

"Sherlock… what are you talking about?" Rose's chest had become tight, her breathing uneasy. "The case is over. You got shot. You didn't solve it. It's over."

"It's not over. What makes you think it's over?"

Rose mind started to buzz. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She'd thought all they had to do now was get past Sherlock's stint in hospital and then everything would be back to normal. Their version of normal. Was the nightmare really not over? She stared dumbfounded at Sherlock as he leant forward to speak.

"I'm going to get Magnussen to invite me to Appledore," he said slowly. "If I see his vaults, I'll know exactly how they can be penetrated. Not just for the information he has on Mary or Lord Smallwood's letters, but anything he has on you, Rose. You and John Garvie. I can get all of it. Destroy all of it."

Clearly it wasn't over, Rose thought. It would never be over, and now Sherlock was going to poke the hornet's nest once more. Rose's eyes stung and she rapidly blinked before sitting back in her chair. She folded her arms in front of her and wiped at one eye.

Sherlock was waiting for a response from her.

Finally she sniffed and said, "Sherlock…" She slowly shook her head. She didn't know what to say to him. Evidently anything she had ever said to him regarding her concerns about Magnussen turning his attention to Sherlock and one day finding out about her connection to the famous Consulting Detective had fallen on deaf ears. Sherlock had taken none of her worries into account. He was going full steam ahead into provoking the media giant. "Please… don't…" she said, an unbearable pressure building up behind her eyes. She could barely get the words out, for fear of sobbing in front of him. "For… us…"

There was a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes. Sympathy? Concern?

"I'm doing this for us," he said.

Rose leant across the table again and reached for Sherlock's hand.

"Then let's wait," she said, fixing her imploring eyes on his. "Wait until you're out of hospital, when you're thinking more clearly."

"I've never been more clear in my life."

"You're high!"

She hadn't meant to snap. Rose pulled her hand away from Sherlock's again. His jaw had hardened, but he couldn't quite manage the penetrating glare that usually crossed his features when he was about to contradict somebody.

"That," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his morphine drip, "is a prop. I don't need it. I want Magnussen to think I'm a morphine addict and therefore no real threat."

"Oh, this again," Rose said, her mounting anger eclipsing her earlier fear. "And what will you do next? Date his gardener? Marry the cleaner?"

"Rose…"

"You've never paid any attention to what I want…"

"Never?"

"You've demanded I come here, in broad daylight, on a whim because you can't stand hospital food, and you don't care whether anybody sees us together or not. Do you have any idea what lengths I've had to go to just to visit you in hospital, unseen…" Rose paused to catch a breath and compose herself. "I'm working full-time, I'm supposed to be looking for new accommodation, and prepare myself for uni next month, and I'm…"

"Why are you looking for accommodation?"

"Don't change the subject!"

Sherlock blinked as if he'd been slapped, but Rose was no longer concerned about his welfare. Her heart beat erratically in her chest and her eyes were rapidly watering.

"You blatantly disregard my concerns for my future… my career prospects… my reputation…"

"What reputation?"

Rose froze and regarded Sherlock through narrow eyes. What reputation? Was he that uncaring or just obtuse.

"Are you joking? My unsullied, clean repu—"

"Look, Rose," Sherlock said, leaning forward and speaking as if Rose's entire rant hadn't happened. "I do care about you. Look," he said, sweeping an arm in a wide arc about the restaurant. "It's not open for lunch until eleven. I thought this would be nice. I hardly ever get out," he added, shrugging, as if he just hadn't found the time to take in the sights or go to nice restaurants because of a busy schedule.

So he thought he could charm and distract her by reminding Rose about his cute invitation to share a meal with him. She wasn't impressed, nor easily distracted.

"Sherlock," Rose said, her skin beginning to prickle in anticipation of the words she was about to say. "Listen to me carefully." Sherlock's eyes had widened as if he had just realised the depth of her emotions. "I don't want you to take this case any further." Rose studied his eyes for any indication that he was absorbing her words. When he didn't respond, she added, "I want you to know, that you can choose the case, or you can choose me. You can't have both."

Sherlock's eyes widened a little, before they appeared to flicker to life.

"That's just ridiculous," he said. "I'm choosing the case because of you. Don't you see?"

In her heart, Rose knew he hadn't had time to understand the full weight of her demand.

"No," she said simply, with a light shake of her head. "You can't have both," she said again.

Sherlock's expression twisted into one of derision.

"No, you don't understand. I've thought about this a lot and I've come up with a brilliant plan."

"Sherlock…"

He gestured toward the door and said, a note of triumph in his voice, "Any minute now Charles Augustus Magnussen is going to come through that door…"

"What?"

"And I'm going to insist—insist, Rose—that he invite me to Appledore—"

Rose stood up and pushed back on her seat so abruptly that the chair tipped backwards and fell with a resounding clatter to the ground.

"Sherlock," Rose choked out.

At Sherlock's bewildered expression, Rose grabbed her phone from the table and reached down to retrieve her bag from the floor.

At that moment a waiter had materialised from the kitchen holding Sherlock's plate of penne.

"Ah…" the young man stammered at the scene before him.

"Is there a back door?" Rose asked him.

"Rose," Sherlock said.

Without waiting for an answer from the waiter, Rose brushed past the confused man and stormed into the kitchen. She didn't stop until she'd found a door to the alleyway behind the restaurant through which she escaped into the warm London sunshine.

.


Author's Note:

Thanks BoAl (Lexi) for the idea of that thing I won't mention just yet for fear of spoilers. And to all readers, I'm sorry for the ending. Again.