Chapter 73 – Why Don't We Just Enjoy the Moment
Sherlock glanced up as Rose left the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. She met his gaze and he exchanged smiles with her before checking the recipe for omelettes on his phone again. Perfect, he thought, taking the spatula and gently folding the one he was cooking in the frying pan.
"Are you all right with that?" Rose asked as she came up beside him. "Smells amazing."
"Child's play."
"So why are you looking at a recipe?"
"Because I've never cooked an omelette before."
"You're kidding." Rose continued drying her hair as she peered into the pan. "What do you cook, then?"
"I rarely cook. But how hard can it be?" He held up his phone and waved it at Rose.
"Well, I can't fault that," she said, before making her way to the bedroom.
"This one's yours," Sherlock called to her.
"I'll just be a minute."
Sherlock deftly plated Rose's omelette so that it looked exactly like the picture on the recipe, minus the sprinkling of basil leaves. He set Rose's dinner on the dining table beside her mountain of textbooks. He then grabbed the frying pan and dropped it into the sink full of water.
"Aren't you having one?" Rose asked as she made her way to the table. She was now dressed in a t-shirt and trackpants.
"I've…" Sherlock gestured toward the rubbish bin as he spoke, then he cleared his throat. "…been sampling."
Experimenting, was the correct word. Apparently it took four attempts to get it right (why give up after three?) and with three eggs per omelette, there were now no eggs left for his own meal.
"I won't eat all this," Rose said, taking a mouthful and pushing her plate toward the centre of the table. "Oh, it's gorgeous!" she added while chewing and delicately covering her mouth with a hand.
Sherlock grabbed another fork from the cutlery drawer and sat opposite Rose. Well, it wouldn't hurt to sample a properly made omelette, and besides, he was starving.
"Oh, I'm sorry, how rude," Rose said, closing up the textbook that had caught her attention.
"No, you keep reading. I did say I'd exist around you and your needs this evening."
He gave her an encouraging smile before Rose's gaze was drawn to the book once more. Sherlock was grateful for the distraction. He stole one more piece of omelette and then drifted toward the living area.
He didn't know how he was going to make this the best twenty-four hours Rose had ever experienced. He just wanted to be near her again. Exist how they used to, with Sherlock bringing her cups of tea so she could continue studying, and she would cuddle up on the sofa with him at some stage later in the evening. That was all he wanted. But tension radiated from Rose in waves. She'd abruptly ended their kiss earlier, awkwardly suggesting they eat dinner soon and then they could talk, but first, she needed to have a shower and later she had a lot of studying to do.
Sherlock didn't mind that at all, and had even volunteered to cook—cook!—dinner for them both so Rose could get on with whatever she needed to do. But he only had twenty-four hours. How could he make Rose relax enough around him to not only enjoy his company but want to be in a relationship with him again?
Sherlock grabbed the remote control and turned on the telly—just like he used to do. He quickly lowered the volume and listened to the intermittent clattering of cutlery as Rose ate and studied. When all became quiet from her direction, he asked, "What are you reading?" He already knew what she was reading, but he couldn't stand not interacting with her another minute.
Rose cleared her throat. Sherlock thought she was going to sigh in annoyance, but she rose from the table and brought both her textbook and notebook around to the living area. His heart lifted just a little.
"The Strengths and Weaknesses of Unstructured Clinical Discretion… in violence risk assessment," she replied, before sinking down into the armchair beside Sherlock.
"Oh. Interesting."
Rose glanced up at Sherlock and a corner of her mouth lifted. He didn't think it sounded interesting, but she was trying to show she appreciated the effort he was making.
"It is, actually," she said, with a tiny twinkle in her eye.
"How so?"
Sherlock didn't really want to know, but he was keen to keep Rose talking. Perhaps if the subject matter was something she was interested in, she may begin to relax in his company.
Rose explained to Sherlock about the different methods used in determining whether or not a violent offender was at risk for committing another violent act in the near future. She talked about taking a historical analysis of the offender—whether there had been a history of violence and/or antisocial behaviour within their family, as a child, an adolescent, or an adult; what relationships they had with other people, both intimate and non-intimate; whether or not they had any mental disorders; how were they employed; did they have a substance abuse problem, and on and on she went, frequently flipping backwards and forwards through her textbook to recount and summarise the hundreds of pages she'd been studying.
As words like "personality disorder" and "victimisation and childhood trauma" echoed around him, Sherlock's cheeks began to burn and his insides churned. Reflections of water rippled through his mind and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
"We look at recent psychotic episodes," Rose continued, oblivious, as Sherlock drifted in and out of attentiveness. "And we have to consider the varying probabilities of the examinee committing a minor act of violence versus a serious act of violence. And of course there's…"
He was finally able to get his breathing under control by concentrating on the dancing flames within the fireplace, but he also found comfort in the enthusiasm with which Rose spoke, rather than the actual words she was uttering.
"You may find this interesting," he forced himself to say out loud with a faux-casualness. He coughed lightly then added, "Mycroft… my brother… told me about this."
"What's that?"
Sherlock briefly glanced at Rose; he wasn't able to maintain eye contact for long.
"An intelligence officer… he shot and killed an unarmed man—a man who routinely destroyed the lives of others without remorse or discernment. This officer—this agent—used his own judgement about whether or not this man should be allowed to live one moment longer. But that's not the point…" Sherlock blinked a couple of times in the direction of the fireplace. Rose was sitting patiently and attentively, her book still open in her lap. What was the point? Oh, yes. Violence risk assessment. "The intelligence community—well, a mere handful of representatives, actually—decided to send the agent to his death as a result, on a mission that would prove fatal after about six months."
Rose was silent for a moment, and Sherlock dared not look in her direction.
"As what?" she asked finally, and Sherlock noted the hint of disgust in her voice. "As punishment? Capital punishment? Without a trial?"
Sherlock inhaled deeply. He tried to force a smile to his face before he met Rose's gaze.
"No violence risk assessment there. This is a British Intelligence organisation, and one that isn't even formally recognised. It doesn't actually exist on paper. They are above and beyond and out of reach of any laws."
"Bullshit!"
Sherlock was taken aback by the ferocity of Rose's comment.
"This is the United Kingdom," she said, "in the twenty-first century. We don't have capital punishment anymore, not even for treason. The United Nations—"
"I know, Rose. This is intelligence community stuff. Spy versus spy. The dangers are apparent to all who play the game."
Rose paused, as if she was studying Sherlock's eyes, but thinking deeply about something else. Or was she?
"I don't condone murder," she went on, "but even the most heinous crimes in this country aren't met with a death sentence for the perpetrator. Was this agent even aware that his next mission meant he'd die?"
"Yes."
"And he was fine with that?"
Sherlock inhaled deeply, and then tried to calmly exhale before answering.
"He had resigned himself to his fate. Perhaps he even thought he deserved it. All hope was lost, and all that rubbish." Sherlock waved a flippant hand and still avoided Rose's gaze. "Perhaps he had nothing else to live for."
Sherlock knew Rose was staring at him. He could feel her eyes boring into him. Did she guess? Come on, Rose. Make a deduction.
"Then why didn't he receive any counselling?" she said, her voice strained with emotion. "Because, in the end, it sounds like suicide."
Her statement triggered another ripple of remorse throughout Sherlock's body. Is that what it had been? He'd given up? Sherlock Holmes had resigned to die for what he had done. The enormity of his actions that day did take a toll on Sherlock's psyche. He'd shut down. Switched off. He was set to go off on that mission. Whether or not he would complete it was another question altogether. He knew there was also a likelihood he would find another way to die. On his own terms. And he'd possessed enough of Billy's special recipe to go out in style during the flight. He may never have touched down in Eastern Europe if Mycroft hadn't phoned him.
"I'm sorry, I've…" he began, as he grabbed a sofa cushion and plopped it at the end of the sofa by Rose's chair. "I've distracted you long enough." Sherlock stretched out, making himself comfortable facing the telly. "Just wanted to let you know about a circumstance under which your violence risk assessment didn't apply."
Rose remained curiously silent while Sherlock studied the programme on TV. The sound was almost inaudible, but he got by, where he could, by lip-reading. Eventually he did hear Rose sigh. She'd begun studying her book again. Sherlock could've kicked himself. Instead of participating in a conversation that would relax Rose, he'd made her tense and upset.
Idiot.
Why had he brought up the subject in the first place? But was there a tiny glimmer of hope? Sometime during that conversation, Sherlock had the feeling Rose would be on his side. He would have her support, should he ever confess his crime to her. But not now. Not while he wasn't sure of her commitment to him. Perhaps one day he'd tell her about the day he'd shot and killed Charles Augustus Magnussen and had been condemned to death by his own brother. His chest expanded with the idea of unburdening himself. But today wasn't that day.
A loud bang sounded by his head. Rose had slammed her book shut.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just can't let this go."
"S-sorry?" Sherlock asked, lifting his head from the cushion and looking up at Rose.
"This… this agent. Is he out there now? Is he dead already? When did this happen? Maybe we can do something about this… tell someone."
"Rose," Sherlock said, struggling to sit up once more. "What I've told you is top secret. I shouldn't have used classified information to make a point. We can't tell anybody. The British Intelligence comm—"
"Intelligence!" Rose spat. "Now there's a contradiction in terms."
"Rose."
"A man has died. Two men, actually, and nobody knows the truth about what happened. And these people in charge, probably take no resp—"
"He's alive."
"—for their actions." Rose furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? He hasn't gone yet? Or the mission hasn't finished?"
"The mission was called off," Sherlock replied. He bowed his head and raked a hand through his hair. "Another… mission came up. One that required his particular skillset. He was… let off the hook. A slap on the wrist and he was free to go… well, so my brother said."
Rose's brow remained furrowed, but she looked off into the distance before slowly shaking her head.
"Perhaps when you've got your qualifications," Sherlock said, limply waving a hand at Rose's book, "I can get Mycroft to put you in touch with… the agent. You can assess him, maybe counsel him a bit…" Sherlock gave Rose a tiny smile. "Give him a reason to live a good life."
Rose's expression softened just a little, and a warmth spread through Sherlock. He offered Rose tea, and left the living area for the kitchen when she accepted.
Rose returned to the dining table while Sherlock was making their tea. He couldn't help feeling a little disappointed, but he could see she now had a lot of typing to do, so he retired to the sofa again once he'd delivered her tea. He continued his lip-reading of the television show.
He didn't know at what point he'd fallen asleep, but the next thing he knew he was being roused from a deep slumber with Rose's tiny kisses dotting his face. He was awake in an instant as her mouth brushed his, and he parted his lips to let her know of his desires.
With a tiny huff of a laugh, Rose drew back.
"You fell asleep," she said unnecessarily.
"But I'm awake now," Sherlock replied, his voice rough and full of longing.
He drew Rose back in, wondering what had prompted her affection. Had she studied him while he slept? If so, how long before she had felt the urge to kiss him?
Probably not worth pondering at the moment as a fierce arousal surged through him. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd even had an erection, definitely not in all the time they'd been separated.
But Rose's hand was wandering, and her tongue insistent, demanding and urgent against his. Sherlock let out an involuntary moan. Rose drew back with chuckle. Her hand pressed hard against his groin and she whispered, "Oh, you are awake."
Suddenly, she was away from him, heading toward her bedroom and looking suggestively over her shoulder. Sherlock was up and out of the sofa in an instant as Rose parted the double sliding doors that led to her room. She clucked her tongue as they both felt the sudden drop in temperature.
"I usually keep these doors open," she said, waving toward the fireplace. "There isn't any heating in here."
Well, needs must, and Sherlock was quick to offer solutions under desperate circumstances. They pulled the quilt and pillows from Rose's bed, and arranged them on the floor in front of the fireplace. Rose was playful and teasing, and Sherlock found her demeanour a little disconcerting.
"Hurry up," she said, and by the time he'd finished moving the coffee table away, he found Rose already lying on top of the quilt in only her underwear. "I want to see you out of those," she added, dropping her gaze to his trousers.
He would happily oblige since his burgeoning erection was straining against the restrictive fabric. Sherlock swiftly drew his t-shirt over his head, then fumbled with the fly.
"As we only have fifteen minutes," Rose said with a chuckle, "you might like to hurry things up a bit."
"What?" Oh. Of course. Rose was mocking him. Him and his ignorant comments only moments before losing his virginity to Shelley, the prostitute, all those years ago.
Sherlock suspected he'd have trouble with the leather trousers at the time he was donning them, but he thought he'd have a little more time to remove them than this.
"How about I amuse myself while I'm waiting?"
Wait. What?
Rose kept her eyes on his while one hand slid into the front of her knickers. Sherlock couldn't remove his trousers quick enough. He really couldn't.
Suddenly lightbulbs flashed before his eyes, and voices yelled over one another.
"Mister Holmes… any comments on Ms Hawkins' story?"
"Did you really make her wear the hat?"
"John Watson," said a female voice in his ear. "Kitty. Kitty Riley," the woman said as Sherlock turned to look at her. "Can I put you down as a 'No' there, too?"
Rose wasn't paying any attention to the reporters.
"Don't worry about them," she said. "Now that you've deleted Charles Magnussen's hard-drive, they've got no place to upload their stupid photos." Rose's hand was now caressing her belly. Her enormously pregnant belly.
"No… wait," Sherlock rasped, as he continued struggling with the legs of his trousers. He had to have sex with her now, before the baby came. Otherwise they'd be so tired. The baby would keep them awake all night. They would be exhausted parents. He knew this after glancing at John Watson one day. He just knew.
Sherlock tried to edge away from Kitty Riley, but his movement was restricted by his pants and he toppled, crashing unceremoniously to the carpet.
In an instant, he was awake. The living area was in darkness, except for the glow of the fire. The reporters' babble had abruptly ceased. He was fully dressed and lay face down on the carpet in front of the sofa.
"Are you all right?" Rose called from the vicinity of her bedroom.
Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock thought, rolling to his side. He still had an erection. He hadn't dreamt that!
"Sherlock?"
"Just…" he said, without a clue about what he was going to say next.
Rose appeared in the doorway to her bedroom.
"Are you all right? Did you fall off?"
Sherlock heaved out a sigh in relief. Rose looked normal again. She was still fully dressed in her t-shirt and trackpants and not… pregnant. Nor was she acting in that fake playful manner in which Shelley the prostitute once indulged.
Stupid subconscious. What was it playing at?
"I'm… fine," Sherlock said, moving to a sitting position and hoping Rose couldn't see the bulge in his trousers in the dark.
"You're welcome to lie down on my bed," she said, as she turned from him.
Oh no, not this again.
"I didn't wake you," Rose continued, her voice floating to him from the bedroom as Sherlock glanced at the place where Shelley the nightmare prostitute had lain, "because you looked so exhausted."
Rose was already back in bed, but she sat on the far side with her legs bent and her textbook perched against them. Her bedside lamp was lit beside her. Sherlock was relieved she looked quite removed from his nightmare sex worker of a few moments ago.
"Um…" he said, then turned his back on her as he plopped down onto the bed and began removing his socks. "We haven't exactly sorted out anything. How can you invite me into your bed so readily?"
He was dreading the answer. The remnants of his dream still hung over him and he couldn't stand it if Rose was trying to seduce him right now.
"Well, you have to sleep somewhere," she said distractedly. Sherlock glanced around. Rose had her attention firmly fixed on her textbook. "And the sofa is obviously too small. I still care about you after all."
Her eyes met Sherlock's at that moment, and she gave him a resigned smile.
Sherlock's heart began to flutter. He felt too embarrassed to lie next to her with the evidence of his obvious arousal.
He pulled the quilt down a little then attempted to surreptitiously swivel his legs under it.
"Aren't you going to remove your pants?" she asked, without a hint of sexual undertones, Sherlock was relieved to hear.
"Ah…"
"They must be uncomfortable."
Sherlock gave an embarrassed cough, then sat up once more. He heard Rose turn a page in her book, so he gathered she wasn't paying any further attention to him.
Fucking nightmares, he thought.
The trousers came off with surprising ease.
I'm really going to have to reboot my hard-drive at some stage.
Sherlock settled underneath the quilt and let out a satisfied sigh. His eyes settled on the ceiling of the basement flat and he laced his fingers together across the quilt. The paint above flaked and peeled in places and Sherlock wondered underneath which part of the house they lay.
Beside him, Rose let out a tiny chuckle.
"You look so uncomfortable," she said.
"I am uncomfortable."
"This reminds me of that time I shocked you with my confession about loving you. Do you remember? All you could do was lie beside me and stare at the ceiling while I worked."
"How could I forget?" Sherlock turned his head, his eyes locking on Rose's. She was looking at him with such affection in her eyes that his throat constricted a little. "It was one of the best moments of my life," he added.
Rose's eyes immediately began to moisten, and she braved a teary smile. She turned from him, as if embarrassed, but Sherlock was glad to see her close up her book and place it onto her bedside table.
"Rose," he said, prompting her to turn to him once more. He studied her eyes, and felt his own chest tightening. But he knew how to say this now. There would be no more hindrances. "I love you."
Rose choked out a sob, but a trembling smile stretched across her face again.
"I know you do," she all but whispered. And she slid down a little, so she was level with Sherlock. She appeared to need a moment before replying. "I love you, too."
Sherlock wanted to move closer and kiss her, but he felt she was off limits at the moment. But her eyes were still glistening with tears, and he longed to comfort her in some way.
"But please respect my wishes," she added. "I've got a lot to think about."
Sherlock's heart plunged. He still had his work cut out for him.
"Then know this," he said, finally reaching for her and cupping her face in his hand. "I've got nothing to think about."
His thumb skimmed her cheek and the smile that grew from his comment lit up her whole face. Rose shuffled in closer and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Sherlock held his breath, unsure of how to respond, before he drew back.
"Ah… Rose…"
"Shh," she bid him. "I know you have an erection." She kissed him again, a little deeper this time, prompting Sherlock to tangle his fingers in her hair, drawing her in close.
What did 'knowing he had an erection' and 'continuing to kiss him' mean? Sherlock still had a lot to learn about relationships, and he hoped, as Rose pressed herself against him, that she would still be the one to teach him.
.
Author's Note:
Just…
…enjoy the moment.
Please review! I love reading your comments!
