Author's Note:

It's a long one, but as it's the last proper chapter for series 3, I thought you may not mind...

Thank you for all your supportive comments and for reading all the way to the end! Series 3 has been a very long writing endeavour. I'm really touched that you're still with me. x


Chapter 69 – You Really Think Anyone's Believing You?

Rose leant against the doorframe, sipping her champagne, a smile threatening to form on her lips despite the constant ache in her heart.

Her cousin's husband was wrestling the children for the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle they had been working on for the better part of the week. Other adults were chuckling around her while her mother's lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. That was Rose's signal to make herself scarce. Since it wasn't Mrs Sulford's place to scold her niece's husband in a home that wasn't her own, the woman would turn to the only other young person she could reprimand in some way. In this case, her daughter.

Rose carefully navigated through the air kisses, and general comments of forced affection from the older women who were busy cleaning the kitchen and solving the world's problems. She knew her aunt and her mother's two cousins preferred to keep Rose at arm's length. Rose didn't know how much they knew—hell, she didn't even know how much her parents knew—but she had the distinct feeling that they thought she hadn't lived a respectable life in London.

After rugging up against the weather, she escaped through the back door into the tiny garden of her aunt and uncle's home in Craigleith Hill Gardens. It was raining lightly, so Rose hunched her shoulders against the icy droplets and quickly made her way across the synthetic lawn where the other twenty-somethings had congregated under the portico by the rear fence and out of sight of the kitchen window.

"Oh, fff-uck, quick," she heard someone say as she approached the dark shadows huddling together in an effort to keep warm and dry.

"'s all right. It's only our Rosemarie," said the voice of her second cousin, Malcolm.

Rose had a whole swag of second cousins that she barely knew since her mother's side of the family had left Scotland for England when her mother had only been an infant. Last year they went to Perth for Christmas, but it had been nearly ten years since Rose had set foot in Edinburgh. Over the years, she didn't always remember who was who, especially as they had all grown older and the interval between visits had grown longer.

"The kitchen's clean now, if that's what you were dodging," Rose said, chuckling lightly as their tight circle parted to allow room for her.

"We were hoping you'd tell us when Auntie Jean's Christmas pud was coming out," Malcolm said to her, handing her the joint that was doing the rounds.

Rose toked deeply as Louise, a cousin from Perth, said, "Sorry, we didn't ask you out here. We thought you didn't, y'know, since you didn't join us last year."

"I was trapped last year," Rose replied, narrowing her eyes against the smoke as she exhaled. She passed the joint to Adrian, Malcolm's best friend from around the corner. "I learnt all about how to make gravy from your mum. Her and Auntie Jean were arguing about it."

There was a light titter from around the group. Clearly they were all ahead of her in the getting stoned on Christmas night ritual.

"So, what's the bud like in London?" Adrian asked, and all eyes were on Rose.

She shivered against the cold, clasping her gloved hands together, and went to make a lame joke about skunk from east London, as once told to her by Billy, when Malcolm beat her to it with a comment about Prince Harry.

She enjoyed their company, but felt envious of the close-knit family group that even Adrian, as their long-term friend, appeared to belong to. She was thankful that they seemed to accept her as one of them so easily, but they were still strangers to her.

Over the next half an hour, they rolled two more joints and passed them both around, regaling Rose with stories about their misadventures, specifically those of Malcolm and Adrian.

Rose had the distinct feeling Adrian was trying to pull her away from the conversation so they could chat in private. At the mention several times of someone called "Erin" in relation to Adrian by others in the group, she concluded, with some relief, that he had a girlfriend. Rose knew she was the new girl, and the novelty, so she tried not to let Adrian's attention bother her. It was hard not to react to him in some way. He was by far the loudest and wittiest of the group.

And his broad, closed-mouth smile was endearing. It reminded her of Sherlock's.

The small party drifted inside when it was time for Christmas pudding. Rose was relieved when her parents finally left; they lived two doors down and her mum told her they'd leave the backdoor unlocked for her. She was only staying there two nights, in their spare room—last night, and tonight—until her cousin Philippa's basement flat was ready for her.

Rose and the other twenty-somethings continued to drink but could no longer toke while they were inside. They played with the children's Christmas toys until the wee hours. Rose's stomach hurt from laughing so much. The drunker they got, the harder they were to understand, and Rose had the distinct impression they were laying on their Scottish accents rather thickly just to confuse her.

Finally, Louise drew her outside, and they had a private toke together with Lou giving Rose the rundown on everybody. It was with interest that she listened to Lou's take on Adrian and Erin's relationship—that they had been childhood sweethearts and had broken up dozens of times over the years, always getting back together until some other drama drew them apart. It seemed they both had been equally as unfaithful as the other. No one was really sure of their current relationship status since Erin had gone to the Highlands with her family for Christmas.

"So don't let Ade come onto ye," Louise said finally, curling her arm through Rose's. "I can tell he's keen."

"Well, don't leave me alone with him," Rose said, thinking the humour in her tone shone through.

"Ooh, ye are trouble," Lou said, lightly tapping Rose on the wrist. "They said you were trouble, but I didnae believe them."

Rose's head buzzed at that moment. Trouble? Who said she was trouble, and why was she trouble?

Before she had time to question Louise, the back door opened and the rest of the young people filed out, some staggering more than others. It seemed that they had been given their marching orders. Rose and Louise followed the group to the street. Farewells were made as if they would never see each other again. They were all staying a stone's throw from one another during the Christmas period and the coming week had further gatherings in the form of the three day Hogmanay celebrations in the city—the upcoming Scottish New Year festivities, so they hardly needed such long and drawn-out goodbyes.

But Rose was hugged within an inch of her life, and the revellers broke up into smaller groups as they made their way to several different homes in the surrounding suburb.

Rose found herself with only Louise and Adrian. She could hear the rest of the group singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer at the top of their lungs as they strode around the bend. Ade's house was just around the corner from the house Rose's parents now owned. Since Louise was one of many relatives from out of town, she had opted to stay with Adrian and his parents, to ease the accommodation burden on all their other relatives.

At Adrian's enthusiastic suggestion that they show Rosemarie what he had made, Louise groaned and slumped as they walked along.

"God, naw," she said. "I'm blootert."

As Rose looked on, bewildered, Adrian hurdled her parents' front fence. Louise waved a hand at Rose and wished her a Merry Christmas, before continuing to stagger along the street. Rose bowed her head and sighed. She followed Adrian's path along the side of the house and around to the back verandah.

Adrian was already sitting in a double swing chair that hung by heavy chains secured to the underside of the verandah roof.

"I made this mah-sel," he boasted, pushing with his heels on the paving stones until the chair swung back a little. "Needs a good sanding. Tell yer parents I'll re-stain and varnish it for them."

Rose smiled ruefully as she approached him.

"It's lovely," she said.

Adrian patted the cushion next to him and Rose decided to humour him for a minute before calling it a night. It was nearly 2am and the temperature felt as if it was only one degree above zero. She sank down onto the seat beside him, tucking her hands into her coat pockets and stifling a shiver.

"Rosemarie," he said, exaggerating the trill on the r's in her name. He leant closer when she turned her head. "I've been waiting all evening tae ask ye this." Rose's muscles tensed a little. "Tell us," he said, lowering his voice to a confidential pitch, "Were ye a stripper when ye lived in London?"

Rose's stomach dropped several inches, whereas Adrian's face lit up.

"I think that's just brilliant," he said, his smile widening and his eyes glistening in admiration.

Rose was aghast. "Why do you... how...?"

"Well," he said, scratching the ginger stubble on his cheek. "They're all talking about it, the lads."

"What? Who?"

"Mal told me, and his da' told him."

"Uncle Denis?"

"And your da' told Denis."

Rose's blood began to boil. And she suspected who had spilled the beans to her dad: her ex-boyfriend's parents, no doubt. Ex ex-boyfriend, she corrected herself, because Sherlock was her most recent ex-boyfriend, wasn't he?

So her parents, or maybe just her dad, had been told after the cousin of Jimmy Dodd, her ex ex-boyfriend, had seen her working at the Rendezvous strip club one night, checking coats. She always suspected her dad knew something. He hardly spoke to her these days—only when he absolutely had to. It was another thing to feel disappointed in herself for. Not that she and her dad had ever been close, but now he could barely look at her.

Adrian chuckled beside her and Rose clenched her fists and stared straight ahead, fuming. She couldn't even deny it. What would be the point of vehemently arguing against the false accusation that she'd been working as a stripper at the Rendezvous when she had performed at various 21st birthday parties and stag nights doing the very same thing as a free agent? And her occupation prior to that was much more seedy.

"So everybody knows?" she asked faintly.

"No' everybody, don't worry yer-sel."

Rose couldn't stop the pressure from building up behind her eyes.

"I didn't come all this way," she said, more to herself than Ade, "just to have my miserable life in London follow me here."

"Oh... hey," Ade said, placing his arm around the back of the chair and leaning in. "There's nowt tae worry about. I'll tell ye a wee story... I was about twenny, right. And at the community hall, right in front of everybody, I pulled doon mah breeks and showed them all mah banger. I was steamin' and I lost a bet."

"You what?"

"D'you think auld Mrs Mackenzie from around the corner doesn't think of mah dobber every time I go round and clean her drains? Of course she does. But I get her drains cleaned and she still pays me."

Rose furrowed her brow and looked up at Adrian.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Aye," he replied, beaming with confidence. "So... when you go 'round... now what were you going tae study again?"

"Criminology and Forensic Psychology."

"Yeah... well, when someone wants their criminal forensics... psycho-whatsit, you'll just do the work, won't ye? And ye know, maybe they'll stare at yer chebs, but still…"

"My chebs?"

"Yer tits."

Rose gaped at the man, barely suppressing a laugh.

"So, you'll get the job done tae the best of yer ability. But, ye know, they'll stare at yer chebs anyway, stripper or no," he added with a sly smile.

Rose couldn't help but chuckle lightly, but it did little to reduce the panic that was rising inside. She had only just arrived here in Edinburgh, for fuck's sake, and this is what everyone already thought.

"It does make me feel marginally better," she replied in mildly good spirits. Or mildly drunken spirits.

"There you go," Ade said. "An' if it makes ye feel even more better, I'll stop thinking o' ye as Rosemarie, the stripper from London. I wilnae expect ye tae get in the scud an' gie it laldy at Hogmanay."

Rose furrowed her brow, not having a clue what Adrian was saying now. She suspected he was speaking like that on purpose again.

He gave her a wide smile, reached for her hand, and said, "I'll think o' ye as Rosemarie, the bonnie English Rose." He pressed his lips to the back of her gloved hand, his eyes dancing in amusement. Rose narrowed her eyes at him and took her hand back.

"That's very sweet of you," she said. "What would be even sweeter is if you could all stop talking about me and imagining me as a stripper." There I go, she thought. Neither confirming nor denying it.

"Aye," he said solemnly, his hand held over his heart, but a smile began to play on his lips once more.

Rose looked away from him and rested her head onto the back cushion. Adrian began pushing at the ground with his heels again, making the swing chair rock gently. Rose closed her eyes and only half-listened as Ade explained about growing up in the neighbourhood and his interactions with the family who had previously owned her parents' house. Her thoughts drifted to the events that had happened just over twenty-four hours ago.

Her heart heaved at the memory of lying to Sherlock about not loving him anymore. She had hurt him; she had seen it in his eyes. She fiercely regretted that moment, but it had to be done, she reasoned. She had to make him let her go. She hadn't expected to have sex with him one final time. It had been a combination of their previous spontaneous and passionate encounters and their careful and considerate love making. It had been many months since they'd last had sex, and the warmth of his embrace at the time had ignited small fires throughout her entire body.

A tiny snort next to her brought Rose's focus back to the freezing cold of the early hours of Boxing Day, the holiday after Christmas Day. Ade was lightly snoring, the swing chair having lulled him to sleep. Rose hadn't realised he'd stopped talking some time ago. She reached out and tapped him on the side of his thigh until he stirred.

"Ade," she said in a loud whisper.

"I'm fine," he muttered. He pulled his beanie lower over his face.

Rose slowly stood up and said, "Go home."

He grunted incoherently, so Rose said, "Merry Christmas, Ade," then left him alone on the verandah.

Over the next few days, with the exception of the weekend, Rose was kept busy helping her Uncle Denis in his office, conducting an informal audit while all his staff were on annual leave. Uncle Denis was a very imposing figure: a stiff and formal sort of man. Whether or not he thought of her as a stripper from London, he certainly didn't show it. She was being paid a paltry sum, but every contribution to her bank balance helped. It wasn't the best time for her to go job hunting anyway, and she didn't want to hang around her other relatives who were taking some of the out-of-towners sight-seeing.

Hogmanay celebrations were upon them in no time, and Rose found it easy to forget her worries with so many distractions around. There was a lot of drinking and toking with her cousins, and the last couple of days leading up to the New Year's Eve main event were mostly spent recovering from the various night's out beforehand.

Adrian was always the life of every gathering and Rose couldn't help but be drawn to him. His hair was also like Sherlock's, she concluded, with waves that ended in curls at his nape. Though Ade's was rusty brown, not black, he still raked his hands through it like Sherlock did. Rose would sigh, annoyed with herself, whenever she found herself staring at his tousled locks.

He was a cabinet maker by trade, but he seemed to pop into everybody's houses, fixing this or that. Rose had helped her cousin, Pippa, and husband, Luke, get their basement flat ready for her. Ade had stopped by a couple of times with supplies, renovation advice or a good old helping of elbow grease. His enthusiasm not to leave a stiff hinge un-oiled, or a window frame unsealed, reminded her of Sherlock stepping up to the countertop at Billy's to inspect the faulty extractor fan. And prior to that there was the heating duct that commanded his attention when the prostitute he was about to have sex with had shivered in her dressing gown.

Both men's zest for their work was an obvious comparison for Rose, but that was where the similarities ended. Adrian actively sought out the company of others just for a mere chat about anything with anyone. There never seemed to be a moment of quiet contemplation, nor did he demand a single moment of solitude in pursuit of mental enrichments.

Rose knew she wasn't attracted to Adrian for his own sake. There were certain aspects to him that simply reminded her of Sherlock, and that was all.

Still, Rose managed to avoid him at many of the evenings out, sticking mostly with the lassies—her cousins Louise and Gemma, and a handful of their female friends. She found the girls even more aggressive in their drinking without the males around.

At ten to midnight at the Hogmanay street party in the Edinburgh city centre, Rose found herself listening to Gemma and Malcolm along with Mal's girlfriend and a handful of others, arguing about what some of the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne meant. She and Gemma were leaning against one of the trees that lined the footpath alongside the many food and drink stands that supplied and fuelled street party-goers. She was completely tanked on vodka and some fruit concoction that she, Gemma and Louise had mixed and brought with them in flasks. The alcohol formed a thick sludge around her brain that had also been softened by toking on several poorly rolled spliffs over the course of the night.

She closed her eyes and let the noise of the revellers thicken around her. For a moment she was transported back to the last time she'd celebrated New Year's Eve.

London. Westminster. Big Ben.

She now assumed it had been a member of Cabinet's vehicle supplied by Sherlock's well-connected older brother that had allowed them through the barriers of cordoned off streets as they neared the Palace of Westminster. She recalled the staggering number of steps they had to climb inside the Elizabeth Tower, the hastened chug of champagne and the colourful characters that comprised the time keepers of Big Ben.

And she remembered Sherlock Holmes.

There had been the swell of the crowd humming with excitement and fuelled by alcohol, just like tonight. A continuous thrum of dance music filled her core, and the dazzling lights that lined the streets and flickered from the large screens along the way kept her mind ticking with images, real and imagined.

At the commencement of the countdown, Gemma pulled Rose over to where their group had gathered, all faces turned upward toward Edinburgh Castle, above which the fireworks would appear. Bleary-eyed and buzzing herself, Rose was swept up in the furore of excited voices as they counted down the seconds until midnight. The wind chilled her as it had done the year before. She could still be standing above the Great Bell in the Elizabeth Tower, the chanting of the revellers sprawled along the Victoria Embankment in London swelling up to her from below. Her heart thudded in her ears with the boom of voices around her.

As the count reached zero, she felt herself scooped up into Sherlock's arms, his lips immediately pressed to hers. She melted against him, her heart a dull ache for what could have been, what was and what could never be. The power of his kiss brought her hands to his hair, her fingers tangling into his wavy locks. The world swam around her, in and out of focus, but she was lost in the moment. They only had this moment, she and Sherlock, and then he would disappear into her mosaic of memories of life in London.

Crackers burst into the sky, party-goers whistled and cheered and bodies bumped against them. She felt their past history, of love, fear and passion, well up inside her. He finally broke free, and as the chilled night air cooled her lips, Rose was stunned to see that it wasn't Sherlock whose arms held her tightly.

Both disappointment and horror coiled inside her. Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Adrian beamed drunkenly at her and attempted to narrow the gap between them once more. Rose pressed firmly against his chest.

"No… wait…" she said breathlessly.

Bodies continued to jostle around them as other folk either craned to see the fireworks spectacle, or were hugging and wishing their friends and loved ones a Happy New Year. As Adrian furrowed his brows in puzzlement, a body slammed into them, splitting them apart and making Rose lose her balance. She was caught by her friends, Gemma and Louise, who were both as stunned as she was. They all turned to face Adrian, who was being shoved in the chest by a very angry blonde.

"And who the fuck is that!" the blonde screamed, suddenly pointing a manicured finger in Rose's direction.

Rose didn't get to see nor hear Ade's response as Gemma grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away from their group, dazed and confused.

"Fuckin hell," Gemma said. "It's Erin! What were ye thinkin'?"

What was I…? Rose thought, her mind still fuzzy.

She tried to look back to where they had been standing, but the crowd was thick and pressed in against them.

"Here," Gemma said, handing Rose her flask, which Rose gratefully took.

The rest of their group eventually appeared out of nowhere, and their viewing of the fireworks was interspersed with more hugs, kisses and New Year's greetings. Rose's recollection became fragmented. A haze of blurred images became the sum total of the rest of her night—arm in arm singing Auld Lang Syne, the lyrics displayed on the numerous flatscreens along the street; more drinking, dancing, and staggering to where the free buses were departing the city centre; sitting on the kerb in a rough line for ages waiting for the next bus, propped up by Gemma, who was in as bad a state as she was. She spied Adrian and Erin a couple of times, snogging like a couple at the beginning of a new relationship.

On the bus bound west for Craigleith, Rose took the window seat and was pressed in by Gemma and some guy called Dave. Dave was quizzing Rose about being English to which Rose only responded intermittently. Gemma took up the discussion of her behalf.

Rose leant her head against the window, closing her eyes and willing herself to stay awake and not vomit.

As an English Rose amongst a bevy of Scottish lads and lassies Rose suddenly felt alien and out of place. As a blanket of loneliness stole over her, she hoped that Sherlock's New Year's had been a lot more fulfilling than hers. His special surprise for her by taking her up to Big Ben last year had been rattling around in her mind all night. Kissing Adrian—such a stupid mistake—made her feel as if she betrayed her love for Sherlock. And now here she was, feeling alone in a crowd on a bus in the wee hours at the start of a new year.

And then the realisation hit her that it was New Year's Day.

It was her twenty-ninth birthday.


Sherlock stood in the doorway at the top of the stairwell—just back enough to keep out of the rain—and exhaled his cigarette smoke skyward. It burnt his lungs and gave him a welcome head spin. But it wasn't enough—he knew that; they knew that. At least his solitary confinement did include a twice a day stint outside, rain, hail or shine.

Solitary confinement was supposed to be a punishment, but Sherlock now welcomed the time to think and be alone with his thoughts. The first two days hadn't been easy. He figured his Mind Palace had shutdown and restarted in Safe Mode. He barely remembered what he did and said exactly, but he did recall head-butting a security services officer. Asking Sherlock if he'd like 'someone to talk to' had triggered something unpleasant. Presumably the idea of talking to a therapist or a counsellor wasn't the best thing to suggest around him at the time.

One week, his brother had said, and it had now been a week, hadn't it?

"Ah, Sherlock," said a voice behind him. Right on schedule.

Sherlock took another lazy drag on his cigarette. Trust his brother to greet him as if the overstuffed git had just been for an evening stroll around a top secret facility and had simply bumped into him.

"How was Christmas dinner?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head back and luxuriating in his exhale once more. "I hope you all realised you had to throw out the rest of the punch."

"A decision has been made," Mycroft replied, as ever disregarding Sherlock's facetious remarks.

"Good," Sherlock replied. He dropped his cigarette butt to the concrete rooftop and stubbed it out with his shoe. He brushed past his brother who had stopped half a dozen steps from the top and said, "I hope you've brought me clean clothes."

"Sherlock."

He shot back, "Not that I don't like..." He pinched the seam of his grey institution-issued tracksuit pants. "But they're not the type of apparel one wears when boarding a plane bound for eastern Europe."

Mycroft Holmes remained where he had been standing, prompting Sherlock to pause and swivel around for the query he knew was on Mycroft's lips.

"How did you know?" his older brother asked.

Sherlock shrugged lightly.

"Where else were you going to put me? Into a general prison, or let me loose on the world? I don't see the emergency committee you cobbled together accepting either of those proposals." He turned, about to take the stairs again and asked, "What day is it today? New Year's Eve is it?" He began to descend, calling back, "Did you get my coat dry-cleaned at my preferred establishment and not yours? I can tell the difference, you know."

Sherlock left his brother standing alone with his head bowed as he hastened down the stairs from the rooftop with one security officer in front of him and one behind.

Sherlock knew that the officers who accompanied him only carried tasers. He had already deduced that they all knew he could manipulate or overpower them, and that they did not want a deadly weapon ending up in his hands.

Mycroft Holmes caught up to Sherlock at the lift waiting to descend once more into the bowels of the facility.

"It's New Year's Day," Mycroft said as they stepped into the lift.

"Sorry, what?"

"Today," Mycroft added. "It's not New Year's Eve. It's New Year's Day."

Sherlock attempted to recalibrate the chronometer in his Mind Palace. But this didn't compute.

"How… can it be?" But he didn't need an answer. Obvious. His two day meltdown had probably been more like three. Perhaps on the first day he'd been completely offline. But New Year's Day? So that means… "I… I need to organise something."

Mycroft Holmes stiffly turned to face him. The two blinks that preceded his next statement told Sherlock his brother was striving to keep emotions at bay.

"I regret there isn't time for you to be going off and organising things. Tell me what you need done and I'll ensure your… wishes are taken care of. After you've changed, we're to leave for the airfield immediately."

It was now Sherlock who could barely contain his emotions. He clenched a fist and the security officer behind him stiffened. Sherlock had been expecting this... this sentencing. And he was planning to have a little breakdown about it once he was away from his brother and had the aid of something chemical to help him focus. That's if Billy had been able to get away from his parents' cottage and had made it back to London unmolested. Only time would tell. If he didn't get what he needed prior to boarding the plane, well... he didn't like to think about it.

But that other thing he was supposed to organise. It was already New Year's Day. Would he be too late?

The party made their way along endless corridors in silence until they reached the 'cell' in which Sherlock had been incarcerated. An officer stood by holding the clothes Sherlock had been wearing the day he entered.

"I'm not changing here," Sherlock said, about facing so that his brother had to come to an abrupt halt behind him. "We're going via your place. I want a proper shower and a shave. The car's this way isn't it?"

Sherlock's coat would be waiting for him at the airfield, Mycroft advised him, since it had to come all the way from Sherlock's own drycleaner. Sherlock internally rejoiced. There was a chance Billy had seen to his needs after all.

After Sherlock had showered, shaved and dressed at Mycroft's residence around the corner from the Diogenes Club, he approached his brother who was just ending a phonecall in his study.

"I want something delivered to a person of significance today," Sherlock stated without preamble, "and on this day every year for the rest of her life. And... even then..."

Mycroft Holmes's barely stifled eyeroll was not lost on Sherlock. He expected as much. His older sibling would presume that Sherlock was being overly dramatic about something.

However Mycroft drew in necessary oxygen as he reached into his jacket pocket for his brown moleskine notebook. Turning to the next available page, he asked, "Name?"

"Rosemarie Sulford," Sherlock replied without hesitation. "I believe you're familiar with her."

To his credit, Mycroft remained silent as he scribbled across the page.

"She's now living in Edinburgh," Sherlock volunteered, "but I suspect you know that already."

"Indeed we do," Mycroft said, eventually looking up at Sherlock. "What's she doing there?"

"Living," Sherlock said through narrow eyes.

"And what would you like delivered to her?"

"Why don't I just write it down myself," Sherlock said, reaching for Mycroft's notebook.

Mycroft locked eyes with Sherlock for a few seconds before carefully placing his notebook down onto the desk. Holding the pages open, he handed Sherlock his pen. Sherlock knew what he was doing. The pompous git was ensuring that Sherlock didn't turn over any of the pages and have a sticky-beak into whatever else Mycroft may have written about him.

As he stooped to scribe the details, Sherlock sensed movement behind him in the doorway to the office.

"Excuse me, sir," came Anthea's voice. "The Watsons have been picked up. They should be at the airfield in thirty minutes."

Sherlock's heart tripped over itself at the prospect of someone coming to the airfield to see him off. His best friend. He straightened up upon finishing.

"The Watsons?" he asked.

"Of course," Mycroft said with a reassuring smile before withdrawing his notebook from Sherlock's proximity. "Anthea," he said to his assistant and holding up the page where she could see it. "See to it that this is carried out by our people in Edinburgh, immediately."

Anthea quickly scanned the page, then said, "Will do, sir."

The trip to the airfield left no time for Sherlock to dwell on his fate. Mycroft handed the Consulting Detective several files that Sherlock had to sift through and commit to memory the important details contained within.

Once they arrived, Sherlock was escorted upstairs to a lounge overlooking the tarmac. Anthea presented him with his coat, which Sherlock casually folded over one arm. He attempted to quell his anxiety about the coat's potential contents.

"When are the Watsons due?" he asked her.

"Fifteen minutes, sir."

Sherlock looked on as his brother entered the lounge area after having spoken to the pilot. Sherlock feigned a moment of spontaneous realisation.

"I need to use the bathroom," he said.

Mycroft nodded to a security officer who preceded Sherlock toward the facilities. Sherlock had to wait while the amenities were inspected prior to him entering. With a nod in thanks to the officer, Sherlock entered the men's room. He stood stock still and systematically scanned his surroundings for hidden surveillance cameras. Finally, he entered one cubicle, stood on the lid of the toilet and continued his perusal of the surrounding area from up high. Satisfied that he wasn't being monitored, Sherlock stepped down.

He sat on the lid of the toilet and folded his coat across his lap. Heart hammering in eager anticipation, Sherlock began examining the lining and seams inside the coat.

Come on, Billy, he thought, anxiety levels beginning to rise.

But what if Billy didn't manage to get away? Sherlock had outlined so many scenarios to his protégé that Billy may have become confused as to which plan to implement.

At the feel of bulkiness inside the hem at the bottom of the coat below the front left side pocket, Sherlock had to stifle a potential outburst of glee.

Billy had delivered!

Sherlock examined the stitching, which was broken in three places. Sliding a finger into the hole, he was able to loosen several more stitches, making the hole wider. He used his index and middle fingers as pincers, easily manipulating out of the hem a rolled up plastic baggie containing Billy's special recipe.

Adrenalin coursed through Sherlock's veins as he rubbed the smooth plastic between his fingers. Snapping out of his reverie, he realised that the business end had arrived and he'd better get to it before his brother grew suspicious. Not having any equipment, he'd have to do this the old fashioned way, with a rolled up five pound note. He'd have just a sampling now and save the rest to have during the flight.

Unrolling the plastic bag, Sherlock found that Billy had written on it with a permanent marker. His message read:

Bon voyage, mate. BW


Rose had made it as far as the sofa in her basement flat after showering. She'd rouse herself to make a cup of tea in a minute. This could quite possibly be the worst hangover she'd ever experienced in her life. Why had she been so keen to embrace this way of life?

She still had several hours of recovery time before she was due at her parents' for her birthday dinner.

She thought she heard a couple of faint knocks on the internal door to the main house and hoped she was wrong. Her cousin kept saying they wouldn't use the doorway that led from their kitchen down to the basement flat, and instead they'd go the long way around, out their front door and alongside the house to the back where Rose's main entrance doors were. Due to the ever-present Scottish drizzle, they never seemed to choose the latter option.

We won't be intruding on your private space, her cousin had insisted.

Rose internally groaned as the door swung inwards.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd be up already," Pippa said, balancing a tray in one hand and gently closing the door with the other. "It's quiet up there for once," she said, indicating her household. As she made her way toward Rose, she added, "Luke's finally fixed the peddle on the trike. They've gone fer a test drive."

Rose awkwardly sat up, reluctantly eyeing the contents of the tray.

"Have this first," Pippa said, handing Rose a tall glass of fizzy liquid.

"You really shouldn't have," Rose said as Pippa placed the tray onto the coffee table in front of her.

Pippa remained standing and watched as Rose downed the vitamin B drink in several large gulps.

"I was young once," Pippa said with a sly smile. "I know what the day after Hogmanay is like, don't ye worry."

Rose felt her stomach churn as she took in the plate of toast and baked beans in front of her.

"It's very kind of you," Rose said feebly. She longed to lie back down again, but Pippa was hovering in front of her, wringing her hands. Rose felt as though her cousin, who was ten years older than her, wanted to say something more.

"Y'know, Rosemarie," she began with a grim smile. "We think of Ade as one of the family 'round here." Oh God, Rose thought. Here it comes. "And he and Erin make such a sweet couple."

"Yes, they do," Rose volunteered in quick time. In reality, she had no idea. She'd never even met this mysterious Erin until Rose had been on the receiving end of the young woman's jealous rage.

"So, ye see, love, you've messed up his head a wee bit, the poor lad."

What the fuck...? Rose thought, but out loud she asked, "I'm sorry?"

"What happened last night... in front of Erin..."

"It was New Year's Eve," Rose said, her chest tightening. "It was midnight. Everyone was kissing everybody else."

"Yes, well, love...That's not how some saw it, but they're saying that's not the first time either."

"What are you talking about?"

Pippa made herself comfortable on the corner of the coffee table in front of Rose.

"Christmas night. Lou said Ade didn't come home until the wee hours. And you two had gone off together."

Small creases appeared in Rose's brow. Her head was far too fuzzy for this conversation.

"He fell asleep on the verandah," she said softly. "At mum and dad's, in the swing chair. I didn't know he spent all night there. I went to bed... by myself."

Pippa's resigned smile told Rose that the older woman assumed Rose was embellishing the truth. But at that moment, the door to the house flew inwards once more and the whirlwind that was Pippa's six-year-old flew down the handful of steps, closely followed by his eight-year-old sister and Luke, their dad.

"Eh," said Pippa, as Aaron climbed onto the sofa and stood leaning heavily into Rose. "I thought you were going out?"

"We got waylaid," said Luke.

"By a special delivery," giggled Mia, the eight-year-old. She had a grin that spread from ear to ear and was holding something behind her back. Clearly not the best keeper of secrets.

"It's yer birthday!" Aaron yelled a little too loudly in Rose's ear.

"Eh, weesht, you! And get down, feet off!" admonished Pippa. To Rose she said, "What's this? Is it your birthday?"

At the same time, Mia drew out a single stem red rose from behind her back.

"MI6 delivered it," Luke said, casually strolling over. "Or at least it looked like it."

"What?" Pippa asked.

Rose's stomach had dropped several inches. She thanked Mia for the rose and told Pippa that it really was her birthday.

"What d'you mean, MI6?" Pippa asked her husband.

"Black car, dark windaes, a man in a suit with one of those ear piece things over his ear. The Secret Service. I thought the Prime Minister was about tae get out, but it was just him and the rose. Or maybe it was MI5."

"Must've been one of those theme deliveries," said Pippa thoughtfully.

"Odd sort of theme," mused Luke. "Doesn't seem like a fun get-up. And I had tae sign fae it and show I.D."

"Perhaps that's all they could manage on New Year's Day," added Pippa.

"MI5? Perhaps our Rosemarie's really a spy."

"It says Happy birthday, Rose," said Mia, pointing to the gift tag that Rose hadn't failed to notice. "They forgot the Marie, didn't they?" the girl lamented.

"Some people just call me Rose," Rose said.

"Are ye a spy?" said Aaron, catching on.

Rose smiled at him a shook her head.

"Oh, and sorry," Mia said somberly, holding up a red petal. "This fell off when Aaron tried tae grab it frae mah."

"I didnae grab it!" Aaron protested.

"That's okay," Rose said. "It's still beautiful."

"Well, then," Pippa said, rising from the coffee table. "Come on, the pair of ye. If it's Rosemarie's birthday I think we'd better get busy baking a cake."

Twin voices whooped in unison, almost rupturing Rose's eardrums.

Luke tried to usher the children out of the basement. But before he left, Aaron offered Rose an intense gaze.

"Rosemarie," he said mournfully. "Ye lookin' affy peely-wally."

Rose gave a weak smile in response to the six-year-old's concern. "I think I am, a bit," she said, ruffling his hair.

Luke and the children left while Pippa smiled at Rose with some affection.

"That's a nice gesture, isn't it?" She indicated the rose.

"Yes," Rose said faintly, thinking her cousin was fishing for an explanation. "A friend from London," she said, hazarding a guess. "Having a bit of a joke, I presume."

"Expensive sort o' joke."

"Uni students?" Rose suggested.

"I'll leave ye to it then," Pippa said, stepping away from the coffee table. "Look, I know ye just need tae settle in a bit. Find ye feet." There were unspoken words in Pippa's concerned gaze.

Settle in, as in, stop fucking other people's boyfriends? Rose thought.

"Try tae get something down, will ye." Pippa indicated the tray of food then bent over Rose and kissed her forehead. "Happy birthday, love." Rose thanked Pippa again and watched as her cousin followed the rest of her family back up into the house.

After the door clicked shut, Rose examined the gift tag one more time. A florist's handwriting obviously, Happy Birthday, Rose, but delivered by a man in a suit wearing an ear piece and looking like he was from the Security Services?

She assumed it would only be Sherlock who was willing and capable of organising such a thing. But why would he go to the effort when they'd parted ways so unpleasantly just over a week ago. Did he still care enough to go to all that trouble, or was this from somebody else—somebody sinister?

Feeling apprehensive, she turned the gift tag over. A warmth flooded through her at the initials she found there:

S.H.

x


There was more than one realisation here, Sherlock thought as he strode across the tarmac, donning his coat.

"Sherlock, hang on," John Watson said, hot on the detective's heels. "Explain. Moriarty's alive, then?"

Sherlock did explain to the Watsons that Moriarty was dead—there was no question about it. He even braved a sheepish glance at John after admitting he had gone through an overdose just to prove it.

But as they climbed into the car, and sped away from the airfield, Sherlock reflected on his other discovery while trapped in the confines of the case he had embellished for himself in his Mind Palace and under the influence. The women in the cult-like organisation had all been lied to, betrayed, ignored, or disparaged by him in some way. That's who they represented. Molly Hooper and Janine Hawkins had featured prominently by his end reveal. But searching his memories of those figures present, Sherlock knew that Rose had not been among them. His mind had concluded that he hadn't done anything wrong by Rose. She had lied to him about not loving him anymore. There was still a chance for them. And now that Charles Augustus Magnussen was out of the picture…

Sherlock settled into the back of the car, a new zest for life coursing through his veins. A potential pardon, an intriguing case, and the incentive to head north as soon as he had the chance.

To Edinburgh, eventually. For Rose.

.

END OF SERI—

Oh, did I forget to say?

There will be another tiny chapter after this one, offering a very short interlude of sorts.

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