Chapter 74 – By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Rose pulled back, for Sherlock had effectively tipped cold water over their snogging session. Are you sure we should be doing this right now? he'd asked. What kind of question was that? But she knew what he meant. At least, she thought she did. If she wasn't intending to have a relationship with Sherlock, then what the hell was she doing?
"I don't know," she replied.
He was so close. Rose could feel the light flutter of his breath upon her face. But he had moved his body away from hers—the minutest of movements, but enough so that there now existed a gap of micrometres between them, except for the entwining of arms. He still held her lightly. And they were still tethered by mutual desire.
"What are we supposed to do?" she added.
Sherlock's gaze was both piercing and searching. What must he think of her? Evasive one minute, lying in bed, snuggling, the next.
"Talk," he said eventually.
Rose didn't want to do that.
Talk.
Because that would mean admitting her real reason for wanting Sherlock out of her life. He's not a part of my plans, she kept saying to herself, over and over, like a new-found mantra. He couldn't possibly be.
"Or we could keep doing this," Sherlock said, with a sigh. He caressed her arm with his thumb. "Perhaps it'll make you feel more relaxed."
"I am relaxed."
Her body tensed automatically, in readiness for an argument with Sherlock. Naturally, he noticed, and a tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"Clearly."
"Stop it."
His smile broadened, and he accompanied it with a low rumble of a laugh before narrowing the gap between them. He met her mouth again in a tender kiss that deepened further, eliciting hums of approval from Rose. It looked like he'd made the decision for her.
Once again, Rose was lost in the familiar comfort that came from lying in Sherlock's arms. His scent, his touch, and now the hunger in his kiss that prompted a desperate arousal within her. It was as she remembered. She gave herself over to the glorious pressure building up inside her as her tongue danced with his.
When Sherlock rose above her, she yielded, rolling to her back and feeling the full length of his body upon her. Because this wasn't talking. This wasn't discussing the future nor dissecting her motivation. No deductions, no false truths, no excuses.
No lies.
Only this.
They disrobed one another in an almost perfectly choreographed manner. They anticipated each other's needs and fell into a familiar routine of mutual exploration. Rose's heart thundered and she trembled as Sherlock's bare hands heated her skin. As their antics became more restless, Sherlock had Rose laughing. Elbows and knees clashed, and a stray pillow fell onto her face when they each fought for dominance. He stopped for a moment and studied her face. Did her laughter surprise him? It certainly surprised Rose. She hadn't felt this giddy in an age.
The ache inside Rose grew, scaring her with the intensity of her neediness. She wanted to proceed slowly, to draw out what they had for tonight only, but the urgency built inside her under Sherlock's expert touch. It was with a raw desperateness that she gasped Sherlock's name when her orgasm shuddered through her. And as Sherlock collapsed on top of her, she emitted a sob that she quickly disguised in a series of breathless gasps for air.
Sherlock rolled from Rose, but kept her close and in his arms. Long gone were the days when he insisted she shouldn't touch him during his over-sensitive post-orgasm phase.
"Were you saying something?" he asked in between drawing in deep breaths.
Light laughter rippled through Rose once more. She felt light-headed as if she had no burdens at all. She shuffled in closer and kissed the underside of his jaw.
She didn't want to spoil the moment with needless conversation. It could turn into something emotional and heated. Rose sighed against Sherlock and closed her eyes. She felt the rise and fall of his chest until he regained his own breath back and it became steady.
They lay in silence. Perhaps Sherlock dozed off before she did. Rose wasn't sure. She slept intermittently—thoughts combining with dreams that would rouse her awake again. She must've fallen into a deeper sleep at some stage, as she could feel Sherlock slowly bringing her to the surface of wakefulness with soft kisses about her neck and shoulders. Rose had no idea what time it now was.
Sherlock's fingers trailed along her arm, then followed the line of her body, stopping to idly skim her breasts. Rose shuffled closer to let him know she was wide awake now. She lifted her head until he lowered his, seeking her mouth. She wrapped her legs around him, bringing him into her.
Their love-making was slow and tender and silent. This time they fell asleep in a tangle of limbs.
It was only short time later that Rose woke with a jolt. It took her a few seconds to register that Sherlock was in bed with her. They'd drifted apart at some stage.
Her insides twisted when she thought about the day that lay ahead. But she would have to deal with that later. She still had a tonne of reading to do and discussion questions to answer before tomorrow. Rose had the feeling she wouldn't get much work done later this evening so she set herself the task of completing as much as she could this morning.
She slid on her dressing gown and left the bedroom. She quietly closed the double sliding doors that usually opened the room onto the living area so it would receive the heat from the fire. The bedroom was now warm enough, and she didn't want to wake Sherlock with the glare from the light above the dining table. Rose filled the kettle and flicked it on, then made for the bathroom that was adjacent to the kitchen. When she returned, she made herself a cuppa and opened her books. For an hour or so, she lost herself in the topic of Violence Risk Assessment once more.
It was still dark outside, but Rose knew it was just on seven when she heard the doors slide open behind her. She twisted around and discovered Sherlock standing there, wrapped in her white bedsheet.
"Why are you awake?" he asked, his mouth turned down at the edges.
"I still have to study," she replied, stifling a giggle at his petulant expression and dishevelled appearance.
Sherlock drifted closer, still unimpressed. Rose tilted her head to receive his morning kiss. As he left her for the kitchen area, she glanced at her almost empty tea cup. She could do with a top up, but she didn't want Sherlock hanging about when she needed to concentrate.
"You can go back to sleep if you like," Rose said.
"No. I'm awake now."
Sherlock refilled the kettle, went to the bathroom as Rose had done, and by the time he reappeared, Rose was furiously scribbling notes on Landmark Studies on Clinical Prediction. It was some time later that she realised Sherlock hadn't delivered on another cup of tea. In fact, she didn't recall seeing him preparing any tea over near the sink.
Rose left the dining table, about to look for Sherlock in the bedroom, when she spied his feet dangling over the edge of the sofa. Looks like he didn't get very far, she thought. Rose rounded the sofa and found the World's Only Consulting Detective still bound in her bedsheet, fast asleep.
She smiled to herself, a warmth spreading through her at the memories the image of him brought. Instead of curling up beside him like she longed to do, Rose finished writing up her notes for the last discussion question, then packed up her books and headed back to the bedroom to dress.
Sherlock stayed asleep during her entire morning's preparation. She even fixed herself a piece of toast with black cherry jam. But she had to leave now. It took over three quarters of an hour to get to the Sighthill Campus at this time of day, plus she had to change buses.
Rose sank down onto the sofa beside Sherlock. Leaning over him, she planted a soft kiss on his lips. He stirred, his eyelids opening a crack before deep furrows appeared in his brow. He reached out and pinched Rose's arm.
She let out a yelp and exclaimed, "What did you do that for?"
Sherlock looked blearily up at her.
"To check if I was dreaming," he replied, his voice thickened by sleep.
"You're supposed to pinch yourself!"
Rose rubbed at her arm while Sherlock looked around him. He seemed uneasy.
"Are you sure this isn't a dream?" he asked. "Why are you dressed?"
"I have to go to uni."
"What?"
"I've got two lectures, back to back." Reaching for him and patting him reassuringly on the arm, she added, "Don't worry. They'll be over by lunchtime. I should be back by one. An early finish today."
Rose stood up and moved aside as Sherlock yawned widely and swung his legs from the sofa.
"Nope," he said, bowing his head and vigorously rubbing his scalp. "It's too early a start for you."
Rose reluctantly left the living area with a longing to run her own fingers through Sherlock's curls. "I've got two buses to catch," she told him, picking up her backpack. She grabbed at the drink bottle she'd filled earlier, and tucked it into the side of the bag. She heard Sherlock rise and shuffle over to her.
"No," he said, enveloping her in his embrace from behind. "That's a rubbish plan."
Rose leant back into him, and momentarily closed her eyes, feeling his steady breath on her neck and drawing in the familiar traces of cologne still lingering about him.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"I've got a better plan," he whispered back.
Sherlock was able to convince Rose to let him take her to uni. They'd even have time to go somewhere for a coffee first. Sherlock chuckled to himself as he headed to the bathroom to take a shower, still clad in the sheet. Obviously he knew where Rose's initial hesitance came from. She'd never ridden on a motorbike before.
They pulled up by the kerb in front of the coffee shop on Colington Road, a few kilometres before the Edinburgh Napier University, where Sherlock knew Rose was enrolled in post-graduate study, a Masters in Applied Criminology and Forensic Psychology. He thought that was particularly awesome of Rose. Perhaps one day they'd get to work together!
Rose released her grip on Sherlock and straightened up. He lifted the visor and turned his head toward her.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Oh… God, yes," she replied, somewhat breathlessly.
He gave her a moment before he instructed her to climb from the bike in the reverse order she had mounted it. Sherlock quickly dismounted and securely stowed their gear while Rose hastened into the coffee shop and out of the elements. Edinburgh never let up on the drizzle, Sherlock thought, glancing at the brooding clouds before he joined Rose inside.
"It's supposed to snow this week," Rose told him as he removed his gloves and tugged at his scarf just inside the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed, and excitement danced in her eyes. She had clearly enjoyed the motorbike ride.
A woman behind the counter called out, "Might snow today by the looks of it."
Sherlock gave her a wan smile, then bid Rose find them a table while he ordered their beverages.
The coffee shop was almost empty, with the presence of only one other couple huddled in the far corner. Rose had told Sherlock that most people heading to Sighthill would prefer to get there first, then grab a coffee from the on-campus Starbucks. Sherlock had wrinkled his nose at the thought, but it explained the absence of patrons this early on a week day.
While he was ordering a pot of tea for two, Sherlock glanced over at Rose. She had her nose in her textbook once more. A feeling of unease rippled through him. What if this didn't work? What if she didn't change her mind?
But why wouldn't she? Rose was already relaxed in his company out in public! Clearly she had no concerns about Sherlock being recognised in Edinburgh, although perhaps it was because his appearance was less like Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective from London and more like Scott Williams, his current alter-ego, who had signed for the storage shed and purchased a motorcycle in Newcastle.
The coffee shop owner told Sherlock she'd bring their tea, so he headed over to Rose. When he sat down, she snapped her book shut and gave him a warm smile. Perhaps he should've insisted she keep studying, but he felt a bit selfish at the moment. She didn't stay in bed this morning and snuggle with him. She'd left him lonely and cold so she could hit the books again. He needed her attention on him. He had less than twelve hours left in which to impress her.
"It's just so interesting," Rose said, her eyes twinkling once more.
Oh. So she was going to discuss her studies anyway.
"Unstructured clinical judgement," she continued, "based on a clinician's professional opinion, their own experiences, and intuition. And it's—"
"Intuition," Sherlock repeated derisively.
"Yes," Rose said, with a laugh. "It's not all hairs on the back of your neck, or—"
"Sorry?"
"'By the pricking of my thumbs,'" she said in a mock ominous voice, her eyes widening. Then she added facetiously, "'Something wicked this way comes.'" And she laughed again. "Although that's more to do with premonition than intuition."
Sherlock frowned. What is this psycho-babble rubbish?
"Sorry… what?" he asked.
"Macbeth."
When Sherlock gave her a dubious look, Rose added, "The witches? Macbeth. Shakespeare. You know…"
"Shakespeare Macbeth?" Sherlock asked. "Is he from around here?"
He was both surprised and warmed when Rose laughed again. She was in a good mood. Sparkling even. Sherlock put it down to the adrenalin that probably still coursed through her veins from the motorbike ride. And he did take the bends at his preferred speed: fast.
"Nope. Don't get it," he said.
"Shakespeare," she said again. "The playwright? Everyone studies his plays in school. Everyone. You would have, surely."
"Well, if I did, then I've deleted the whole experience."
"O-kay," Rose remarked, a tinge of humour still lacing her voice. "But I'm betting you've got entire monologues trapped inside that head of yours, just bursting to get out."
Sherlock continued furrowing his brow, still unimpressed. Doubt it, he thought.
"So," said Rose. "Where was I?"
"Intuition, apparently."
Rose leant back in her seat and told Sherlock about their debate in a tutorial one week, about intuition versus instinct. She said that a decision based on intuition involved far too many complexities within the mind to ever discern how that decision came about, a notion Sherlock found fascinating.
Data processed at such a rate that the conscious mind fails to grasp just how, he thought. His own mind worked at lightning speed, and most of the time he could recall the logical progression of thoughts. But sometimes...
He was about to voice these thoughts to Rose when a waitress brought over their pot of tea. They both lapsed into silence while the pot and cups were laid out before them. Once Sherlock had thanked the waitress, and she had left, Rose began to pour the tea.
"So, what was that?" she asked him. Sherlock could tell she was suppressing the desire to laugh at him again.
"What was what?"
"That… accent."
"It's Scottish."
One of Rose's brows shot up.
"It it?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, feeling defensive. "People from Scotland speak it. Haven't you noticed?"
"You might want to decide exactly where in Scotland you're coming from. Or Ireland... or the North of England."
"Scott Williams comes from all over. Hence the motorcycle."
"Who?"
Sherlock leant forward and said, "I'm undercover, Rose."
"And how did you think up a name like that?"
Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. After opening it, he slid out his real driving licence and passed it across the table to Rose. He watched as her mouth formed a delighted 'o'.
"Your name's William?"
"Shh!"
Rose began to chuckle again.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"
"William is far too commonplace. I've always preferred Sherlock. How would you like it if everybody knew your name was actually Rosemarie?" Sherlock said in a low voice.
Rose passed Sherlock's licence back to him.
"Just about everyone I meet in Scotland knows my name is Rosemarie. I can't be bothered to let them know I prefer Rose."
"Why not?"
"Because Rose reminds me of living in London."
Rose looked away from Sherlock and slowly stirred her tea. Sherlock slipped his licence back into his wallet. A heavy weight descended on him once more. Does everything about London bring Rose bad memories?
And what was wrong with his Scottish accent, Sherlock thought as he opened a sachet of sugar and tipped the contents into his tea cup. It was one he was working on. He may like to add it to his repertoire.
"So…" Rose began again. "How is London? How's everybody?"
"Ah… good," Sherlock replied, leaning forward on his elbows. "John and Mary asked me to be Godfather to their…baby."
Sherlock didn't fail to notice the tiny flicker of alarm that crossed Rose's face, and then it was gone.
"Godfather, wow…" she said, swiftly recovering from whatever had concerned her in that moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think to ask… what did they have?"
"A girl. Rosamund Mary."
"Oh. Lovely."
"Rosie for short," Sherlock added, with an embarrassed smile.
Rose quickly returned his smile, but Sherlock could still detect an uneasiness within Rose.
"Someone in Mary's family, apparently," Sherlock quickly added. "The name, that is."
Rose nodded vaguely, a tiny smile fixed on her face. Why was she uncomfortable with this conversation? It was just a baby. John and Mary's baby. And hadn't she made peace with John now?
Oh! That was it! Sherlock cast his mind even further back. Rose had become uneasy around anything relating to Mary Watson, ever since Sherlock revealed who had shot him. She probably didn't like to think about Sherlock in any kind of close proximity to Mary, so he sought to ease her worries by placing the former assassin within an ordinary context.
"There was a bit of a ceremony," Sherlock added, puffing out his chest a little. "And cake."
"I didn't think many people had christenings these days," Rose remarked, lifting her tea cup and taking a sip.
"Don't they? Well, I wouldn't really know. Not something I ever think about."
"No," she said, her voice taking on a distant quality Sherlock couldn't interpret. "I don't suppose you would ever have to."
Rose continued sipping her tea, glancing around at the café as she did so. She straightened up in the seat, and Sherlock noticed a slight shift in mood.
"Any interesting cases?" she asked.
Sherlock could tell she was attempting to move away from the conversation that involved Mary, so he was happy to tell Rose about his last few cases, carefully omitting any involvement Mary may have had. His inbox had been bursting, especially since he started tweeting with the 221BringIt hashtag.
When Rose's phone chimed with a message, she glanced down and declared it time to go.
Sherlock's heart sank a little. He was just getting warmed up, and Rose had relaxed enough once more to laugh at a couple of his case-related anecdotes, specifically about the incompetency of Scotland Yard and the bewilderment of clients when Sherlock would deduce the minutiae of their lives. She was also quite impressed about his deduction involving a jellyfish as the perpetrator. But he drained the last of his tea anyway, and they set off for the university.
Rose directed Sherlock to the shelter by the bus-stop so she could dismount the bike out of the rain, which had only begun to get heavy after they'd left the coffee shop. Sherlock quickly stowed the helmet Rose had used, then rounded the bike to say goodbye. He also removed his helmet, figuring they'd spent enough time together, in broad daylight, probably more than the entire time they'd been together in London.
Rose didn't seem to mind, but she did appear slightly nervous, as if this was a first date and she was unsure how to say goodbye. The situation was akin to Sherlock's evening out with Janine Hawkins all those months ago, although he had manufactured his discomfort in order to wend his way into Janine's heart. His own heart heaved at the memory of the pain he'd caused Rose at the time.
But at the moment, Rose was looking up at him with affection written plainly on her face, with a delicate flush crossing her cheeks. The rest of the world didn't seem to matter to her.
"This was amazing," she said. "I didn't think I'd enjoy riding on the back of a motorbike so much. But…"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth curved upwards and his chest expanded a little.
"I could pick you up for lunch, if you like," he said. "We could go somewhere… dry."
Rose laughed lightly, and she took a step towards him.
"That would be lovely," she replied, lightly touching Sherlock's arm to balance herself as she stood on her toes. She planted a quick kiss on his lips that Sherlock wasn't expecting. Not such a gesture in public, and not from Rosemarie Sulford, formerly of Leinster Gardens. "Goodbye, Sherlock," she said softly.
His mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed awkwardly.
"'Bye, Rose."
A smile grew on her face and Sherlock realised why. The beginning of their goodbye ritual! Sherlock began to feel emboldened. This was an important moment for them both, because their ritual had reached a new level of intimacy. He could now say…
"I love you."
Rose appeared to melt before his eyes as a result of his spoken words. Tears pooled in hers, before she responded, her voice brimming with raw emotion.
"I love you, too."
Relief flooded through Sherlock. This was a new beginning for them both. A new existence. Rose didn't mind being seen in public with him, and he could tell her he loved her, unprompted, without being high!
He ducked his head and brushed his lips against hers as the final step in saying goodbye.
"I'll see you at lunchtime," Rose murmured, with a tiny smile on her face. Then she turned and quickly strode towards the buildings.
Sherlock replaced his helmet and made the bike roar into life. He decided he needed a quick getaway and an open road. He felt the need for speed.
.
Author's Note:
This chapter just kept going on and on until it reached over 6K and I still hadn't finished it. So I've split it here. Hope you don't mind! But the good news is: the next chapter is only a couple of days away!
Let me know if you're still reading! I sometimes wonder if you lovely people are still here when I don't hear anything back for a while.
elbafo
x
