Chapter 77 – You've Isolated Yourself
Rose cast an expert eye over the young man who had stuttered out his name. Josh—if that was his real name at all—had the distinct mannerisms of a first timer. She gave him an encouraging smile. Not too enthusiastically. She didn't want him to think she was about to eat him alive. Just enough for him to feel warmed by the gesture and find that he'd be in safe hands. It was Rose's duty to make him feel comfortable, to direct him and encourage him, so he'd want to come back again.
The regulars were always easy to spot—some walked with a swagger, feeling perfectly comfortable giving Rose the once over and gifting her with an appreciative leer.
But Josh barely made eye contact. He hitched up his jeans, which were in danger of falling down, and entered the room, looking nervously around. Rose gave a deep sigh and followed him in, closing the door firmly behind them.
This was her life now, two nights per week. And why not? She was obviously good at what she did. Her time spent in London had not been wasted. She stifled a yawn. It was the late nights that were doing her in. She'd go back to the hovel she called home, wash herself of the dregs of society, and spend the rest of the night studying.
Sherlock stayed in the shadows of the building opposite. It had been a while since he'd smoked; he had been doing so well on the whole abstinence thing. But being here, and seeing the folk who turned up at the door, made him itch a little.
He hadn't seen Rose, but she may have arrived earlier than he had. He knew she'd be here. A quick visit to Craig the Hacker that morning had yielded a bounty of information regarding Rose. And what he'd discovered had made his heart sink.
"Well," said Craig, "You said to check everywhere, and everyone on this list… hospitals and the like." Craig pointed to the screen, revealing an admission to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. "Sulford… right?"
He now had a list of addresses for Rose's new residence in a dubious area of Edinburgh and multiple places of work. She'd been keeping busy, clearly out of financial necessity. Her emotional state was something that wasn't kept on any database Craig could hack into. Sherlock wondered how she was faring. Well, he was about to find out.
He sighed and lit his second cigarette. How long should he give her? Fifteen minutes? Thirty?
In the end, he waited forty-five minutes before he approached the door to the community centre. Standing inside the foyer area, Sherlock could see the session that was underway through the glass panel of the door to the adjoining room. Rose sat with the others, their chairs positioned in a makeshift circle, with her back to the door. The man Sherlock had deduced as the group leader sat on her right. He wore a particularly loud, multi-coloured jacket and brown trousers. Sherlock read a multitude of sins in the man's clothing alone.
Rainbow jacket's attention was drawn to the door, and he leant toward Rose and said a word or two, obviously alerting her to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock stepped back from the door. Through the tiny window, he could see Rose's chair was now vacant. This was the moment he'd been anticipating all day. His heart leapt into his throat and stayed there until Rose opened the door.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
"Sherlock," she gasped.
Rose quickly exited the meeting room, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock had opened his mouth in greeting, but the words he was planning to use died away. He was taken aback by the sight of Rose. She wore a slim-fitting dark red top over a long skirt. The top accentuated her bust, but thankfully didn't reveal her cleavage. More importantly, the clingy fabric revealed the tiny swell of her abdomen.
"Ah," he began, but most of the air had already left his lungs. "Am I too late to join the… ah… cocaine addiction recovery support… group?"
Her expression was unmoving, and she quickly inhaled.
"Sherlock."
"Obviously, that's not what I'm here for," Sherlock added, the words tumbling out. His gaze dropped to Rose's tiny baby bump again. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A bump of a baby. She was still carrying their baby. His... baby. "But… um…" He drew in a much-needed breath, but his head still felt light and dizzy. He was wrong about her plans! At least, what the worst of her plans could have been. Sherlock had never been so relieved to be wrong before. And Rose looked… apart from a bit alarmed at his presence, and a little peaky… she looked… breathtakingly beautiful. His former definition of beauty didn't take into account the emotions he would have to surrender when presented with the love of his life carrying the beginnings of his child.
"We... need to talk," he continued. "I've been slow. Stupidly slow. And I'm sorry it took me so long—"
"Sherlock. I'm kind of in the middle of something here."
Rose gestured behind her toward the meeting room.
"Not really in the middle," Sherlock replied. "You only have fifteen minutes left of the session. They run for an hour don't they? And then you serve tea and biscuits to the recovering addicts, which I'm sure they appreciate. You wouldn't have any ginger nuts by any chance?"
Rose looked decidedly uncomfortable and she shifted where she stood. Sherlock had expected at least a smile from her for his quip, but one hand stole across her stomach, before she quickly removed it.
"I can't talk to you right now," she said.
"That's… fine," Sherlock replied. He was just grateful she hadn't ordered him to leave.
"But there's a café around the corner," she added. "It's open late—"
"I've seen it."
"So, I'll meet you there afterwards. You'll have to give me a few minutes. Adam and I have to clean up… I have to sweep… and…"
"It's fine, Rose. But I'll wait outside." He gestured to the foyer doors. "I'm not comfortable with you walking around the block at this time of night."
Rose gave Sherlock an appreciative smile, one that didn't quite meet her eyes.
"Okay," she said, with a tiny sigh.
Before he could think of anything else to say, Rose turned and disappeared back into the meeting room.
Sherlock spent the next fifteen minutes alternately pacing outside, clenching and unclenching his fists and flicking his fingers—all in an effort to avoid smoking the next cigarette. Finally, the participants of the support group started to emerge in clumps and singles. Some members, like the young man who made every second step by hitching up his jeans, were greeted by outsiders who had arrived to give them a lift. Trouser-hiker was hugged by somebody who looked like his mother. She was valiantly holding back tears.
Wayward son. Finally receiving treatment and support for his cocaine addiction. Clearly his first night attending. And supported by Rose, too. He's in safe hands, Sherlock thought.
He knew the drill. When he was a twenty-something cocaine addict, his brother made him attend a support group such as this. A decade ago now. Sherlock lasted three minutes. The first thirty seconds were spent listening to some tosser lying his way through supposedly sharing his life story. Sherlock interrupted him, pointing out the man's contradictory statements and then proceeded to spend the next two minutes and thirty seconds telling everybody else's life stories on their behalf. Unfortunately, he also gave away the tiny detail of one of the other members selling his wares before the evening had began, thus also confessing to being high himself during the session because of the aforementioned drug dealer.
Holmes the Younger was ejected from the meeting and never had to attend another support group again. Even the rehabilitation he had received before Christmas last year had involved private therapy sessions—such as they were.
The younger version of Sherlock Holmes would never had envisaged his future self in the position in which he now found himself—pursuing a woman with a view to continuing a relationship and stating his commitment to both the woman and her unborn child. Romantic entanglement, as Sherlock had come to believe sometime in his youth, while fulfilling for other people, was not for him, for his brain had come to govern his heart. There was a reason for this—the idea of not getting involved with people on an emotional level—but the origins had long ago escaped him. He had even become detached from his parents. The world was safer then. That's all he knew. At least, until he had met John Watson, and later, Rose Sulford. In fact, there was now a small group of people with whom he shared some affection.
Finally, the lights in the community centre were switched off and Rose emerged followed by Adam in his technicolour therapy-coat.
Rose spied Sherlock across the street. She said something to Adam and they both looked in his direction. Thankfully, Rose appeared to bid Adam a goodbye before she hastened across the road to join Sherlock.
"Everything turn out okay?" Sherlock asked, not really caring, but wanting to kickstart the conversation. "No emotional breakdowns, heckling, or inappropriate deductions?"
To his surprise, Rose emitted a tiny chuckle.
"Inappropriate deductions aren't something that normally happens in a support group," she said.
"You'd be surprised."
They lapsed into silence since Rose didn't ask Sherlock to explain what he meant, and nor did she elaborate any further on how her evening went. He had a hundred questions to ask her, but he didn't want to upset her before they'd even reached the café.
"Adam's okay," Rose volunteered as they rounded the corner. "He means well."
Sherlock cleared his throat, attempting to prevent himself from voicing his immediate thoughts.
"He makes sure I get home safely on the nights I volunteer here," Rose added.
"And then goes home and fantasises about you."
Rose stopped before the door of the café.
"Sorry?" she asked.
Sherlock smiled meekly.
"Inappropriate deduction. Ignore me."
Rose gave Sherlock a sideways glance before pulling open the door to the café. She said, "He's qualified to facilitate the Self-management and Recovery Training sessions." Sherlock stifled a yawn. "He said I can undertake the training as well, and then I can facilitate other sessions around Edinburgh. But I don't know." She sighed as she surveyed the seating area of the café. "It's not where I ultimately want to devote my time."
Sherlock knew what Rose was doing. Her intentions were the same as his—at least, initially: keep talking to fill the silence before someone says something of importance. But there was an elephant in the room, or rather, a foetus in the womb, and someone was going to have to say something about it sooner or later.
"Earl Grey?" Sherlock asked Rose.
"Yes, please. I'll get us a table."
So far, so pleasant.
When Sherlock joined Rose in the booth she had chosen, she was typing on her phone.
"Notes," she offered by way of an explanation when Sherlock slid onto the soft vinyl seat across from her. "For next week."
Sherlock watched her in silence for a few seconds before he steeled himself for the conversation he was about to instigate.
"Rose," he said.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features before she stopped typing and placed her phone down. But the mask was back just as quickly. With the exception of the first few seconds of laying eyes on Sherlock this evening, he was quite sure Rose was catching her emotions before they betrayed her.
Sherlock leant forward and dropped his voice to a confidential pitch.
"I'm sorry about your mother."
Again there was a hint of a reaction before Rose averted her gaze. She cast her eyes around the room and remained fully composed except for one clenched hand. What was going on with her? Sherlock knew, thanks to his personal hacker, that Sandra Sulford had suffered a massive stroke and died in the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary two days later. He was sure this family tragedy had a lot to do with Rose's new residence, away from her extended family.
Finally, her eyes met Sherlock's again.
"Why are you here?"
This wasn't how Sherlock thought the conversation would go. This was like talking to a suspect just before Sherlock deduced their crime.
He drew in a calming breath and said, "I thought it would be obvious." When Rose didn't respond in any way, he continued, choosing his words carefully. "You sent me away by making a decision on my behalf." He kept his eyes firmly on Rose, even though she kept looking away. Was she even listening? Sherlock kept his voice low and steady, regardless. "I didn't even realise there was a choice I could make—an alternative response. But I understand now, and—"
"But it's been almost two months."
So she was listening. Sherlock noted the accusatory tone in her voice and tried not to take it to heart.
"Yes," he replied. "I was slow. Too slow. I'm an idiot." He waited until his nerves settled before he spoke again. "When faced with a number of alternatives for whatever your plans were, I couldn't fathom why you wanted me to leave. Not after the day we had together." Sherlock could feel his chest growing tight again. Rose's apparent indifferent attitude was getting to him. "And quite frankly, I'm done with trying to deduce the meaning behind your actions, Rose."
His remark brought Rose's attention back to him. She frowned—the first signs of an emotion that stuck.
"But let me tell you what I do know," he added. "You're pregnant—thirteen or fourteen weeks. I'm not sure. I lost count somewhere along the way. And you're carrying our… baby." Rose's expression was beginning to soften and her eyes were glistening. "They're the facts you and I both possess. Now let me tell you something you don't know." Sherlock's confidence grew when he saw Rose's eyes grow wider. "I'm going to accept my role… my responsibilities in this… your pregnancy, and… parenthood."
He stopped, for his throat felt constricted. This was the first time he'd spoken the words out loud and they reverberated inside his head. He laced his fingers together underneath the table and squeezed. He had Rose's full attention now. Her mouth gaped a little, as if she wanted to say something, but no words could come out.
"Now, I don't know if you still… love me," he said. It had pained him to think this was a possibility—it had been almost two months, like Rose had said—but Sherlock was trying to be practical and he couldn't tell what Rose's feelings for him were right now. He cleared his throat and continued on, his voice still low. "But I will support you financially, emotionally, whatever you like, and from a distance, if you don't want anything to do with me. I don't know what happened to bring about the change in your circumstances here, but they don't look good from where I sit. But here's something else you may have forgotten." He paused for effect, because he knew his next statement had to stand out from the rest. "I love you."
His words had the desired effect. Tears pooled in Rose's eyes and she gave a small gasp.
"Rose, I still love you," he added for emphasis.
Rose glanced around the room as if wanting to escape from the moment, before she bowed her head, a sob escaping into her hand. Sherlock sat frozen, partly in smug satisfaction for finally provoking a true emotional response from her, and partly because he didn't know how she'd receive physical reassurances from him. And if he did move around to hug her, he would have to do it in a public place. There was also that.
There was a smattering of people about the café. A couple did glance in their direction, Sherlock noted.
But he had to put his own discomfort aside. This was all about convincing Rose he was emotionally invested in her and her situation. He couldn't just sit there and watch her cry.
Sherlock was just about to slide out of his side of the booth when a waitress arrived with their tea. He stopped where he was and the young woman shot him an angry look as Rose continued to shudder into her hands. Sherlock offered the waitress a weak smile, but she gave him a disapproving frown in return. Thankfully, she left them in peace.
Sherlock sighed in relief, slipped out of his seat, and joined Rose on the other side of the table. He put an arm around her.
"It's okay."
Rose continued to sniff and sob, her face shielded by her hands. Sherlock held her tightly and gently rubbed her arm.
"It's going to be okay."
From this close proximity, Sherlock could smell her hair and the familiar scent of apple-pear shampoo. When had she started using that one again? This sent a myriad of signals along his olfactory system, and Sherlock suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of calm with just a sprinkling of longing.
But Rose didn't turn or lean into his embrace. Instead, she appeared to stiffen. She straightened up and shrugged her shoulders, prompting Sherlock to loosen his hold.
"Sherlock, don't," she whispered, with one final sniff.
This felt like a stab to the heart and he withdrew his embrace.
"Rose…"
But Rose turned to her bag, rummaged around then produced a tissue. Suddenly she was away from him, saying, "I need some air," before sliding out of the booth.
Sherlock's chest heaved in disappointment, before he, too, left their table and hastened outside to join Rose on the pavement. But Rose kept going, taking strides along the street back toward the community centre.
"Rose." Sherlock caught up with her at the kerb. "Where are you going?"
"Home," she said, checking the street in both directions for traffic. "I've got a bus to catch."
Before she could step out into the street, Sherlock grabbed her arm.
"Wait!"
"Sherlo—"
"Have the courtesy of finishing our conversation." He didn't let go of her arm, prompting her to turn and face him. Tears formed in her eyes once more.
"Sherlock."
"This is getting ridiculous now. I've been very patient, Rose. We're talking about our—"
"I don't have time for this!" Rose pulled her arm out of his grasp. "If you were so clever about finding where I was tonight, why didn't you go one step further and figure out I've got work to do before tomorrow! I don't want you or need you! I've got everything sorted!"
"No, you don't," he said calmly. "You've probably missed the last bus, and there's only a matter of time before Adam the Gallant propositions you. You spend far too much time volunteering, meaning you have no down time, what with you studying all the time, not to mention your paid work at the coffee shop—this coffee shop—and a pub some evenings. And look at you. You're practically malnourished, which can't be good for a developing foetus. Your hormones are all over the shop and you live in a share house that has a limited hot water supply."
"Stop it."
Waving a flippant hand at her, Sherlock added, "There's too much shampoo residue left in your hair. You can't stand being in the shower for too long. It's freezing."
"I said stop it!"
"Rose," he said with a sigh. "Talk to me properly. You're better than this."
Rose seemed to grow even more tense as she looked along the street as if to check for the bus that wasn't going to arrive. Exhaling a shaky breath, her shoulders dropped and she lifted her eyes to Sherlock's.
"I have to get home," she said, all hope having left her voice. "Can we discuss this tomorrow afternoon? I have to deliver a tutorial in the morning and I need to finish preparing it." There was a quiet desperation in her tone that Sherlock didn't fail to notice. "This is a important to me. Please, Sherlock."
Her words, I don't want you or need you, stuck in his mind, but her plea momentarily overrode everything. Sherlock was sure she didn't mean her dismissal with everything else he was beginning to read about her. But he was always wrong!
"We can discuss it now," Sherlock said warmly. He gestured along the road and added, "I'll drive you home. We'll talk in the car."
Rose followed his gaze. Sherlock had parked his new purchase a little way along the street past the café they had just left.
"I didn't want you on the back of the motorbike in your condition," he added with a reassuring smile.
Silently, Rose seemed to acquiesce, and they both made their way over to the midnight blue sedan, which was almost invisible in the darkened street. Sherlock had bought it as soon as he'd arrived in Edinburgh that day. He'd had quite a bit of time on the train from London to Newcastle to think about the support he'd give Rose. He'd leave this car for her. But first things first…
They drove in silence for a few minutes before Rose told him she'd failed her last essay for this particular unit, despite receiving an extension, and that's why the tutorial she had to deliver tomorrow was so important. She spoke in the same uninflected tone she'd used earlier.
"You've taken too much on," Sherlock said, then immediately regretted it. He was sounding judgmental. Now who was he resembling?
Rose lapsed into silence. Sherlock decided he really had to keep going with his argument. He did have a captive audience right now—quite literally.
"I only want the best for you, and our… baby." Sooner or later he was going to stop hesitating when referring to his… offspring. Sherlock detected, rather than heard, Rose emitting a small sigh. "And don't think for one second," he added, "that I'm just going to go back to London and leave you in the same state in which I found you."
"Found me?" Rose repeated, the resentment clear in her tone. "I'm not lost, Sherlock!"
"Oh, come on, Rose. You know what I mean."
"This isn't the way home," she said petulantly, looking through her window.
"It's not the same route the bus takes," Sherlock replied. "And I'm betting Adam takes the long way round."
Rose muttered under her breath something Sherlock didn't quite catch.
But he inhaled deeply, then continued.
"You volunteer twice a week at the centre so you can help drug addicts. Addicts, Rose, who have decided they need help and will accept it from you. But you can't see that you need help and support—"
"I don't—"
"This is where you're living now," he said, as they turned the corner into Rose's street. "It's a long way from Leinster Gardens, isn't it?"
He was hoping Rose would see her surroundings through fresh eyes. And, as if to support his statement, a young woman, who Sherlock could see was quite obviously a sex worker, hastened along the street.
"Oh, God. Just pull over," Rose said.
"What?"
"Pull over! Here!"
"Why?" Sherlock asked as he slowed the vehicle a few metres from the house he knew was Rose's new home.
When the car came to a complete stop, Rose shoved her bag aside and leapt out. She hastened over to the sex worker as Sherlock brought the car to the kerb. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the woman turn to Rose who was obviously saying something to her. The woman yelled some obscenity at Rose, then shoved her. Sherlock was out of the car in a flash, but Rose had only staggered backwards and had swiftly recovered.
"Rose," he said.
"Annabelle!" she called out to the young woman who was rapidly disappearing into the darkness of the poorly lit street.
Another woman holding a screaming baby emerged from Rose's residence.
"Leave her, Rosemarie," she called from the doorstep.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock said to Rose as he approached her.
"I'm fine."
Rose continued on to the house with a determined stride.
"Why'd you let her go?" she said accusingly to the woman who stood in the doorway.
Sherlock looked on in mild interest at the melodrama that was unfolding before him.
"Because I've had it with her. I'm calling social services in the mornin'."
Rose stood on the top of the step and conferred with this second woman, while the howling baby almost drowned them out. Rose looked toward Sherlock momentarily before she let the woman and infant re-enter the house. Sherlock was just about to lock the car and join Rose when she hurried back to the kerb.
"Can you take me to the shop around the corner?" she asked.
"Why?"
Rose explained that Annabelle had neglected to buy more formula for her baby. The infant had been left in the care of Olivia, the woman Rose had been conferring with.
During the entire journey around the block, Sherlock fought to hold his tongue. Through the shop window, however, he saw Rose delving into her bag for change and coming up short. With a deep sigh, she handed over her credit card.
Oh, for Christ's sake, Sherlock thought.
"Please don't say anything," Rose said as she climbed back into the car. "We support each other. That's all you need to know."
Could she tell Sherlock was fuming? Clearly she was attempting to give help and support to the entire population of Edinburgh rather than admit to herself that she also needed help.
And she was supposed to be the psychologist.
When they pulled up at her house, Sherlock gently held Rose's arm before she could leave the car.
"Wait," he said. "Just listen for a second." Rose frowned, but she remained in her seat holding the large tin of formula in her lap. "I know you can only think about tonight, rather than the rest of your life, so hear what I want to offer you."
Rose appeared resigned enough to listen and didn't display any agitation about having to get the baby formula inside. Sherlock wouldn't need long anyway.
"I've got a place—rented a flat, actually—only a few minutes from your campus. There's two bedrooms, one with an ensuite, so you can take that one and I'll happily have the smaller room. I'll let you study all night, uninterrupted by crying babies. I'll bring you cups of tea, if you like. There's a loaf of bread for toast in the morning and a jar of that black cherry jam you like. You can come and go as you please all day, and when you're ready… we can talk."
Rose's eyes became rounder and shinier, but then she frowned. Sherlock knew she was just about to protest, so he swiftly added, "You may think you don't need help, Rose, but look around you. You've been slipping and sliding for some time now. You probably haven't noticed. But I'm sure this isn't what you had planned for yourself when you left London."
Rose was trying in vain to hold back her tears.
"But it's…" she said, struggling with a voice thickened by emotion. "It's not what I wanted for you."
Sherlock swallowed hard. It was just as he suspected and thanks to Mrs Hudson.
"You're Sherlock Holmes," Rose said, braving a half-smile. "You're made for bigger and better things. England needs you. I won't burden you with this. Just let me go, Sherlock."
Rose looked like she had come to the end all that she could manage. She had finally told him the truth, and she was putting herself through hell just to spare him a bit of inconvenience.
"You're wrong, Rose," he said. "Don't you remember me telling you once that I don't date? How far have we come since then? Thanks to you, I've changed, and I'll continue to change, for the better."
"But you—"
"Here," he said, reaching into this jacket for his mobile phone. He swiftly navigated to the video app and handed the phone over to Rose. A still of the last video he had recorded was displayed on the screen. It showed part of the wall of his bedroom at a peculiar angle. The phone was in motion when he had hastily pressed record last night.
"What's this?" Rose asked.
"A character reference."
Sherlock looked on as Rose pressed Play. The hearty chuckle of a three month old baby came through the speakers, then the camera angle shifted awkwardly and only half of her face was shown. Dark curls of a mostly unseen adult appeared in one corner of the screen before there was the distinctive sound of a raspberry being blown on the belly of the baby.
Rosie Watson burst into rich laughter once more before her image filled the frame properly this time. Sherlock's voice was heard, saying, "Now calm down. You're embarrassing yourself."
Rosie cooed and gurgled, her arms outstretched. Tiny bubbles formed on her lips as she experimented with different sounds, looking up to the man holding the camera phone.
"Now let's get back to the case," Sherlock was heard saying to the smiling infant. "I believe you were onto something."
The video stopped with the image of a contented Rosie frozen on the screen.
"Who was that?" Rose asked, handing back Sherlock's phone.
"My God-daughter, Rosie Watson. I probably shouldn't have got her all worked up like that. She was supposed to be going to sleep, but she needed her nappy changed, and then one thing led to another. Entirely her own fault."
Rose gave Sherlock a tiny smile.
"I solved three cases that evening," he told her, feeling encouraged. "Two via email and one through Twitter. John and Mary were out on a date night, and Mrs Hudson and I were babysitting. So, you see, Rose. I'm perfectly capable and more than willing to do my share."
Rose appeared to shrink into the seat a little and she stared out of her window toward the house.
"Why don't you take the formula inside," Sherlock urged. "And if you decide to take me up on my offer, I'll be waiting for you out here."
Rose silently left the car. Sherlock would've thought that that wasn't a good sign, but she hesitated at the door to the house and looked back at him before she entered. She would be back, he thought. Plus there was the fairly suggestive fact that she had left her handbag on the floor of the passenger seat.
Again Sherlock longed for a cigarette when one minute turned into five and then fifteen. He wound down the window, thinking perhaps he'd smoke just half of one, but the door to the house opened. Sherlock's heart swelled when he saw Rose emerge carrying her familiar backpack possibly laden with books plus a smaller sports bag. He left the car and hastened to open the rear door for her.
"You all right?" he asked Rose once they were back inside the car. Sherlock thought she'd been crying for most of the time she'd spent back inside. It pained him to see the evidence written on her face. She took a moment to compose herself.
"Did you look at me," she began, struggling to keep her voice steady, "and see that I wasn't going to make it?" Her eyes implored him, but before Sherlock could answer, she added, "Because you're right. I won't… make it. I realise that now." Tears welled in her eyes and she quickly wiped them with the back of her hand. "I can't do it, Sherlock. Not alone."
Sherlock's heart went out to her. She'd tried for so long to do everything herself. He knew her cry for help didn't come easily for her.
He reached for Rose's hand and said, "You're not alone. Not anymore."
.
Author's Note:
I know it's taken a while, but I'm trying to keep it real. I don't think Rose is the sort to just fall into Sherlock's arms like a damsel in distress. She's stubborn and independent, and never wanted to admit to herself that she needed anyone else's help.
Thanks for reading!
