Author's Note:
Thank you all for your kind words! All those reviews really made my week, and I'm only sorry I couldn't get this chapter out fast enough.
Chapter 75 – You Can't Go. I'm Pregnant!
Sherlock spent most of the morning exploring the outskirts of Edinburgh before finally deciding on a lunchtime destination near the city centre. By the time he arrived at the university where he had previously dropped off Rose, she was already waiting for him. She smiled demurely at him as he pulled up at the kerb.
Little was exchanged between them as Rose donned the spare helmet and they sped off once more. Sherlock took the long way around before finally parking outside a boutique hotel in Picardy Place. There was a steak restaurant adjacent to the hotel and several other eating places within walking distance. His preference was the restaurant, because it seemed like it would appear more intimate, but it wasn't open for lunch. He had chosen the hotel, however, because he had made plans. An eating establishment was secondary.
The rain started to fall, lightly at first, as Rose left Sherlock to approach a statue that was facing the other way. Sherlock had investigated it earlier—some literary figure, not even a real person! Rose had murmured that she had always wanted to see it, so Sherlock busied himself securing their items before the heavier rainfall sent them both hurrying over to seek shelter in front of the hotel.
"Well, we could…" Sherlock gestured along the street and the corner around which he knew other food outlets existed, as Rose shivered beside him. "Or…" He drew in a steadying breath and hoped Rose wouldn't take his suggestion the wrong way. "I've actually…" He folded in his upper lip as Rose curiously looked up at him. "I've booked us a room… well, a bath… a room with a bath, because I know how much you like to…" Sherlock inhaled deeply again as Rose raised an interested brow. "And in this weather, in the middle of winter, there isn't actually any site-seeing you can do here, except galleries, and they're rubbish. And I don't fancy standing inside a glasshouse in the middle of the botanic gardens, hoping for snow. And you don't have a bathtub in your basement flat, and I know you like… baths." He trailed off, but was thankful to see Rose's face brighten into a smile, and finally, she emitted a tiny chuckle.
As she hugged herself, obviously suffering in the weather, she said, "I do love fluffy white snow. But, fuck, it's cold. Show me your room with a bath, then."
Ten minutes later, Rose stood gazing out of the hotel room window at the view that showed the rain-misted shadowy shapes of the Firth of Forth as Sherlock filled the bathtub. Their third floor room of the converted Georgian house offered the best views, and Sherlock had requested it specifically. Rose had been telling Sherlock about one of her lectures when she had breathed out a "Wow," in response to the view.
As the bath filled, they discussed options for lunch, with Rose concluding she wanted something hot but not heavy. Soup was the best option there. Sherlock left Rose preparing for her soak in the tub and headed downstairs to find a suitable café. Thankfully, the reception staff insisted he order something in rather than braving the elements. After Sherlock made a phone call to a café around the corner that agreed to deliver, the receptionist offered to bring the food up to their room once it arrived.
The easy bit taken care of, Sherlock climbed the three flights of stairs back up to their room, a dull ache in his chest. Rose was already in the bath by the time he returned. He informed her about the status of her lunch, then offered to make her a cup of tea. He stuck to the safety of the bedroom, rather than talking to her from within the bathroom where Rose would most likely be lathering herself.
"Don't worry about the tea just yet," Rose called back.
After Sherlock had removed his jacket, because the room was rapidly becoming toasty, Rose called him.
"Yes?" he asked. She didn't reply, which meant she was waiting for him to enter the bathroom.
"I thought you were going to join me," she said, continuing to lather one leg and looking up at him through her lashes.
Both longing and fear coiled through Sherlock. He wanted this, but the future still seemed so hazy that he also hated to think of the disappointment that may be waiting for him.
"Do you want me to?" he asked, straining to speak through the thickening of his larynx.
"Of course!"
Sherlock turned from the bathroom, exhaling a sigh into the open bedroom. He was receiving so many contradictory signals from Rose. But he quickly and silently shed the remainder of his clothing, then returned to the bathroom. Rose had already slid forward, her legs bent at the knees, as she always used to do when they performed this ritual in Baker Street.
So long ago.
Apart from the passage of time, a heart-shattering break up, remnants of almost-infidelity, a drug relapse, and the murder of an unarmed man, everything seemed to be just the same as it always had been.
And the temperature of the bath water was two degrees above intolerable, just like it used to be.
"Christ!"
"Sorry!"
Rose slid back and settled against Sherlock. She began gently running a facecloth along Sherlock's arm, so he leant his head back, closed his eyes, and pretended they were upstairs in 221B Baker Street. The low hum of the traffic outside could very well be taken for central London traffic on a Sunday.
Rose's gestures eventually took on a new meaning, and one thing led to another with them both ending up entwined, quite damp, but at least on the bed. Sherlock still found sex in the bathtub largely unacceptable. Foreplay, yes. Intercourse, no.
There was a knock on the door, but they hadn't quite finished with one another.
"Sherlock… that's…" Sherlock stopped, lost in his own… something or other. "…the door," Rose finished.
Sherlock advised Rose that it was probably her lunch and then he sighed and climbed from her.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "Perhaps it's John Watson again."
Sherlock didn't understand the joke. He frowned in response to Rose's half smile as he made his way to the bathroom where he retrieved both bathrobes from behind the door.
"I think I'd better answer the door," Rose said, eyeing Sherlock suggestively, even though he'd now donned the robe. He sighed and sought sanctuary back in the bathroom until Rose gave him the all-clear.
Rose, fully clad in her hotel-issued bathrobe, was peering into the takeaway bag when Sherlock re-entered the room.
"So are we just…" Sherlock said, gesturing between the bed and Rose's lunch. "…pausing… for lunch?"
Rose chuckled lightly and left the food, in preference to drawing herself up in front of him.
"Lunch can wait," she whispered, tugging at the sash on his robe.
It didn't take them long to get worked up once more. It was more like a race… was it a race? Fortunately, they reached the finish line together, and lay sprawled and panting, staring up at the extra high ceilings. Day time sex also reminded Sherlock of those lazy Sundays in Baker Street, but without the distant hum of Mrs Hudson's vacuum cleaner. And how he missed Cluedo!
Eventually, Rose turned to her side and moulded herself into him. He felt her breath flutter against his neck as she sighed contentedly. His heart swelled at the sensation.
"I can't stay here all night," she said. Sherlock's heart began to deflate again. "All my books are at home, and I still have to—"
"—study."
Sherlock tangled his fingers in Rose's hair, but suddenly she was away from him and grabbing at her bathrobe. He was starting to receive those alarming signals from her again. He stayed where he was for only a moment longer, before he, too, rose and wrapped his robe around himself.
"Mmm," Rose remarked from the vicinity of the takeaway soup. "Potato and leek. Try some."
"No, thank you," Sherlock said, while he was tying up the robe's sash. "Potatoes and leek. Two of the dullest vegetables on the planet, and they've constructed a soup out of them."
"It's really nice!" Rose said, with a laugh. "And anyway, didn't you order it for me?"
"I simply asked for the soupe du jour. I didn't care to hear what it was."
They sat in companionable silence once more, while Rose finished her soup and Sherlock tutted while clicking through the television channels. Eventually, Sherlock stretched out along the sofa, and Rose joined him. It seemed as if they still existed around one another in perfect synchronisation, not having to speak or suggest what their next movements would be.
Lying on a sofa both clad in bathrobes, in front of the telly, discussing the inanities of the programme they were watching, making Rose laugh, and occasionally snogging: now this was like being in Leinster Gardens. And then Rose began to press her desires onto Sherlock. Definitely like Leinster Gardens.
But, Christ! Four times in a twenty-four hour period! There would be nothing left of him at this rate. Sherlock assumed this was something akin to being on a honeymoon. A "sex holiday."
Or a conjugal visit.
But this time, Rose didn't stay lying in Sherlock's arms, post-coitus. She quickly left him for the bathroom. Could he hear her sniffing?
So, what should he do now? He knew Rose's clothing lay in a heap on the floor of the bathroom. There was a good chance she'd emerge fully dressed, and then he'd feel like an idiot for remaining naked, with the bathrobe loosely draped around him.
Reluctantly, Sherlock rose from the sofa and began to dress. Rose was crying, wasn't she? Quite obviously the end was nigh, and she couldn't reconcile the emotion that had built up during the best twenty-four hours she'd ever experienced, with what she was about to tell him. Sherlock was a bit off with reading Rose at the moment, but he knew her laughter was spontaneous, the enthusiasm in her touch was real, and her sighs so tangible he wanted to bottle them. But there was something about her that niggled at Sherlock—something that wasn't quite right that was forcing her decision not to go in his favour.
He was just buttoning up his shirt cuffs when Rose emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed. Her eyes quickly scanned his attire, before she turned from him as if she needed to search the room for something.
"Well, this was lovely," she said. Her words vaporised into the air, they were so thin. It didn't even sound as if Rose had spoken them. She drifted toward the window. "I'd love to see it snow from up here," she added dreamily. Her shoulders drooped ever-so slightly, and Sherlock knew she was lamenting something that couldn't be. But he couldn't take her in his arms. He felt paralysed with the inability to make things right.
"Yes, well, we could…" Sherlock began, reaching down to scoop up his jacket from a nearby chair, "come back later after we retrieve your books." His words sounded hollow, even to himself.
But Rose strode by him and picked up her handbag from the coffee table in complete silence. Sherlock made for the door and wrenched it open. Her silence spoke volumes to him. It was over. Just like that.
Technically, Sherlock had about six hours remaining if he excluded the time she'd been at uni, but Rose's demeanour quite clearly gave him her answer already. Why? was what he wanted to ask. If he couldn't change her mind in eighteen of the twenty-four hours, what could he possibly do in the last six? Make it snow for her?
He had to take her home first. This wasn't a conversation for an inner-city boutique hotel in Edinburgh. He would at least take her home, even though he had nothing else to say.
Rose bowed her head as she leant against the kitchen bench. The kettle began its noisy rasping pre-boil protest. She shivered, then quickly made her way over to the fireplace. Sherlock would be here any second now, and him lapsing into silence meant he already knew her answer.
He was right. This was one of the loveliest twenty-four hours she'd ever had. She couldn't recall laughing so much in one period, and now she was about to ruin it for both of them. She couldn't tell him about her pregnancy. What was once a decision she'd made for herself (and the baby) in the absence of Sherlock, now became something to keep from him because she didn't want to burden him with the responsibility. Sitting in the café this morning, he'd told her about dozens of cases he'd solved in the previous month. Cases that had him working alone some of the time because John had responsibilities now, he'd said. John Watson couldn't just up and leave at a moment's notice because of baby Rosie.
She couldn't do that to Sherlock. That wasn't a life he'd ever planned for himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective. He could never be the kind of detective he was, spontaneous, edgy, carefree, and be a sometime dad. That notion sounded ridiculous.
And worse: if she did tell him, and he rejected her—rejected both of them—that would be a stab to the heart she never wanted to experience.
She wanted them to separate on her terms. It would be her decision alone, as it had been initially.
They hadn't arrived at her basement flat together because she'd asked him to park a block away, so nosy neighbours wouldn't stare out of their windows and ask questions later.
"If you park your bike outside the Fergusons again," she had said, "everyone will think you visited them."
"I did visit the Fergusons."
"You did?"
"Yes. I asked if they minded if I parked my motorbike outside their house because I'm visiting my Aunt Flora and I didn't want to startle her with the sound of the bike."
"Flora? As in Flora Derby?"
"That's the one. Aunt Flora. On the corner."
"But she suffers from dementia. She won't know—"
"—if I visited her or not. The perfect cover story."
Sherlock had given her a weak smile, before turning back to his motorbike and securing his helmet in place. And he didn't reply when Rose told him she'd leave the gate unlocked for him.
She built up the logs in the fireplace and lit the kindling. When she knelt back, she heard the door open.
"The kettle's on," she said to Sherlock as she straightened up. She gestured feebly toward the kitchen but then froze when she took in Sherlock's expression.
He stood, immobile, by the door, staring at her, his eyes slightly rounder.
"Why, Rose," he said, his voice a mixture of gravel and bone-deep sorrow.
Rose's breath hitched in her throat.
"Sherlock." His name came out as an exasperated sigh. She didn't want him to plead with her. "You said you'd respect my decision."
He shook his head slowly, his expression unchanging.
"Then why did we go through with this… this day together?"
He must know why, Rose thought. Wasn't it obvious?
"Because I didn't like how we parted last time," she replied, striving to keep her voice even. "And all those months ago, with the…" Rose swallowed the name Magnussen, before it passed through her lips. "The… case… You were kind of obsessed. Then the drugs, and Janine, and you getting shot. Things got worse after that. This… this was like how it used to be between us. Is that such a bad thing to want for our last time together?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, and Rose knew what that look meant.
"But that's not all, is it?" he began. "This was supposed to be an honest goodbye. You're quite clearly keeping something from me."
Her stomach dropped several inches. He wasn't supposed to find out this way! Deducing her pregnancy was one thing, but Rose didn't want to have to tell him.
"Then why can't you…" Her hands itched to cross her abdomen. A protective reflex… or did she find it comforting?
"Make a deduction?" Sherlock finished for her.
Rose wanted to snap out of her defensive stance. She moved away from the fireplace, momentarily putting the sofa between her and Sherlock, but she ended up stopping before the dining table. Sherlock moved a few feet away from the door and towards her.
"If you've already noticed something, then why can't you...just..." Rose offered.
"Because I can't see you properly," Sherlock replied, impatiently. "You're full of contradictions, and my… feelings for you just get in the way. It's like… radio interference or something." He gestured dismissively. There was a faint look of disgust on his face, as if he was disappointed in his lack of observational skill when it came to her. "When I saw you yesterday," he went on, "you looked defeated. You looked tired…" He waved a hand flippantly toward her stomach. "You looked… pregnant. There. You see?" He raised his eyebrows quizzically. Did he not notice Rose's hiccuping sob at the word pregnant? "Utter nonsense," he continued. "Obviously your family upstairs bring you meals, and…"
Sherlock had paused. So he had noticed.
"Rose?" But her eyes had filled to the brim, and she had placed a shaking hand over her mouth. "Rose?"
He took a step towards her.
"Clearly I'm missing something," he said, lowering his voice to a gentle pitch. "Is there—"
"I'm pregnant."
"—someone else?"
Rose blinked, forcing a tear to trickle down her cheek.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"I'm pregnant!" she said again, louder this time.
Sherlock recoiled as if slapped, a reaction that caused a flood of emotion to burst from Rose.
"I'm pregnant! I'm having a baby! You were right the first time!"
Creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as if he didn't comprehend, and then he blinked a couple of times.
"So you do have a boyfriend." Rose gaped at him for a moment. But he continued with, "Does he even kno—"
"No! There's no one else. I'm eight weeks, Sherlock. Eight. Count them…" There was no response from the detective-genius. "Christmas Eve!" Sherlock didn't move. "Oh my God!" Rose exclaimed, tearing herself away from his blank gaze. She paced toward the kitchen and then spun around. "Christmas Eve! Don't you remember? Were you that high?"
He slowly met her gaze and said, "Christmas…?"
"Eve!"
Rose continued to scrutinise Sherlock's expression. It was like nothing at all was getting in.
"We had sex," she said, incredulity growing in her tone. "You and I. At Billy's. In that room you were fixing up. I had no…. We didn't use…" Rose felt she was answering questions Sherlock wasn't even asking. Why wasn't he firing questions at her by now, to ascertain the real truth. To find the holes in her story. Perhaps he didn't understand. "Sherlock." Her voice was fraying at the edges now. "We had sex. It's you. You're the f—"
But she couldn't finish her sentence. Father. Such a word should never be associated with Sherlock Holmes. He was a professional. He had responsibilities to all of England, not to two insignificant people: a single mother and her child. Ten a penny! What made her so special that she could take him away from a more noble existence?
Emboldened by her thoughts, she straightened up, and continued.
"It was my fault. I stopped using contraception and I didn't tell you. I'm taking full responsibility and I've already made my decision. One that has nothing to do with you. I've made plans and..."
She stopped, because Sherlock was looking into nothingness again. She'd seen that expression before, as if the shutters had come down. He'd reacted in the same way when she first told him she was in love with him. He needed the time to process this information, because at the moment, it didn't compute.
But Rose didn't want to take the time to wait until Sherlock understood. She didn't want to sit him down, make him a cuppa, and talk about how it was possible that he was going to be a father. She wouldn't let him take on that burden. And the idea of him knowing and verbally agreeing to leave her with this responsibility was a heartbreak from which she knew she'd never recover.
She had to make him go, now, before he said anything.
Rose walked over to the door, brushing past Sherlock as she did so.
She held the door open and said, "Sherlock. Please respect my decision."
The cold wind that whipped through the doorway appeared to snap Sherlock out of his thoughts. He turned to her, a faint puzzled expression on his face.
"This is your honest goodbye," she added, attempting to mask her emotions with a look of indifference.
Sherlock blinked as if something had finally got through to him. Rose stepped aside and lowered her gaze, still holding the door open. Sherlock silently crossed the threshold and Rose quickly closed the door after him. She watched as a flurry of white specks drifted toward the tiled floor, propelled by the force of the door closing. Curious, she watched as the first of them touched the tiles and slowly melted into droplets of water.
Rose inhaled deeply and shivered. A heavy sense of despair and loss descended on her, mixed with awe and a tiny, childlike sense of excitement.
It was snowing.
And as an ache grew in her heart, she knew she hadn't pushed Sherlock away; she loved him more than she could possibly love anybody else, ever again. And it was for this reason she had let him go.
.
