Chapter 78 – Permission to Have An Ordinary Life

Rose tipped her head back and allowed the water to rinse the conditioner from her hair. She'd probably spent a good twenty minutes in the shower now, with the water as hot as she could stand it. Sherlock was right about the hot water in the share house in Niddrie. She'd forgotten how soothing a warm shower could be. Unfortunately, his other deductions about her were also spot on, despite his earlier statement about not being able to read her.

Rose bowed her head once more, a great wracking sob escaping her. The contrast between where she'd ended up and where she'd started from went beyond access to a warm shower. Relief and despair both flooded through her. She'd held out for so long. She thought she was coping. It was a rude awakening to learn she hadn't been.

Sherlock's voice through the ensuite door, telling her he'd made her a cup of tea, jolted her out of her depressive reflection.

Rose took a moment to compose herself, then called back, "I'll be out in a minute!" making sure her voice was steady and light. She knew she wouldn't fool him for a second.

She shut off the water. The poor man, she thought, stepping out and grabbing her towel from the nearby hook. She told him she'd have a shower because she was only going to be quick. She had to study. Her whole world revolved around her university course, even when that world was crumbling beneath her feet.

Sherlock had pointed out the main bathroom earlier, with its roll-top bathtub, and Rose had looked at it longingly, before practicalities ruled out the idea of a long soak. But then she'd spent far too much time in the ensuite shower anyway. He was always thinking of her! He'd found a self-contained holiday apartment that had a bathtub, just for her. Rose shuddered to think how expensive the rate per night was.

"This isn't close to uni," she'd remarked earlier, when they had pulled up outside the apartment in Edinburgh's West End.

"Closer than where you were," Sherlock said with a half-smile. And he was right. It took her almost an hour by bus to get from Niddrie to the Sighthill campus. "And besides," he added, "I prefer the beating heart of a city, rather than it's dull extremities."

The apartment close to Edinburgh's 'beating heart' lay in the basement of a listed house on the corner of a boutique shopping district. Rose had been in this area once before, when she and Pippa were looking to buy a present for Pippa's mother. The woman only ever wanted the best, otherwise, one shouldn't bother. They'd browsed a quaint gift shop not far from here, with Pippa lamenting she couldn't really afford anything.

A sense of shame rippled through Rose as she slowly dried herself. Her shame went well with every other negative emotion she had about herself. Sherlock was so good to her, and she'd pushed him away and broken his heart more than once. She didn't deserve such a good man.

After entering the main bedroom, Rose dressed in a t-shirt and trackpants. Her movements were slow; her limbs felt heavy and her heart beat dully in her chest. She didn't want to go out there and face him. There was such hope in his eyes, such compassion and care. But she was a horrible person, the lowest form of life. At least her family had thought so.

What family?

Her heart gave a small twinge, reminding her of everything that had happened. She'd eventually pushed it all aside. She'd added her relationship with Sherlock to the list of things she'd lost during that month. And then she'd got on with it. Living. Working. Studying. It was easier to keep going and not think or feel.

But now everything she'd pushed away appeared to be pushing back. It crowded her mind, tightened her chest and threatened to suffocate her. Rose's breath fell short and she stooped, holding onto the bed for support.

Your mother… you killed your own mother…

Her face paled and Rose sank, not onto the bed, but the floor beside it.

She died of broken heart, came her mother's cousin's voice.

Her father's voice, so small in his grief, resonated the loudest.

You're no longer our daughter.

He couldn't even look at her in the hospital as he repeated those words—her mother's last words to her, spoken only days before she'd sufferd a stroke. It was up to Uncle Denis to remove Rose from her deceased mother's hospital room. She was about to protest very loudly.

Rose was hugging her knees, her head bowed, as she sobbed into her lap. An ache radiated from her heart, making every joint in her body throb. She didn't know how long she had stayed this way, nor did she notice Sherlock entering the room. But he had sat down next to her and held her in his arms.

If he had said anything initially, she didn't remember. But, eventually, something did get through.

"It's going to be all right."


"I can't do this anymore," Rose eventually hiccupped. Sherlock held her tightly as they sat on the floor of the bedroom.

Can't do what exactly? He wasn't sure. Studying? Juggling multiple jobs? Life? Being with him?

Sherlock thought he was making the right noises, offering the most appropriate soothing words. But during his ordeal—for he found the act of offering vague comfort a bit of an ordeal—he longed to get moving, to solve this thing. Surely, someone of his intellect and pure genius could fix anything.

But Rose wasn't a puzzle to be solved. He was supposed to do just this: offer love and support. It was ill-defined; no logical progression of steps appeared to exist. But still, he held her. His gut twisted at the thought that she was in so much emotional turmoil she couldn't function properly. This had happened once before, and at the time, Sherlock hadn't possessed the emotional intelligence to deal with it adequately.

But when Rose began to uncurl and she leant into him a little, he knew it was only a matter of time before she would be okay, or at least, be able to speak coherently.

Sherlock kissed the top of her head and gently rubbed her back. Rose's sobs eventually became intermittent and she lifted her head briefly to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. His heart swelled.

"Thank you," she whispered a little shakily, before locking her head underneath his chin once more.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, thinking that was the right thing to say.

"Not yet," she replied, sniffing once more.

A few more minutes passed. Sherlock was aware of the passage of time as if he had an actual hourglass in his head. As the sand trickled slowly through to the bottom glass bulb, he could feel every grain. Surely she was wasting precious study time!

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For… everything."

Sherlock thought in silence for a moment. Everything was far too broad. How could he solve everything?

"You did the best you could under the circumstances," he said, hoping his platitude was vague and general enough, having heard the useless sentiment somewhere before.

Rose lifted her head and straightened up.

"I pushed you away and made you feel unwanted and not needed. I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't mean it," Sherlock swiftly replied. He was lying, but Rose didn't need to know about the insecurities he'd harboured after she'd sent him away. He didn't want her to feel any worse than she already did. "Come on," he said encouragingly. "I'll make you a fresh cup of tea and we can talk out there."

Sherlock didn't really want to talk. He just wanted Rose to be herself again and for the rest of their lives together to commence.

Rose wiped her eyes. The situation seemed hopeful, so Sherlock added, "And then I'll fetch you whatever you need so you can continue studying."

"Don't bother," Rose replied resignedly. "I'm not going to… I can't…"

"Of course you can. First things first."

Sherlock rose from the carpeted floor and held out a hand to Rose. Thankfully, she grasped it and allowed Sherlock to help her to her feet.

"I won't continue my course," she said. "I can't now."

Sherlock hated that Rose sounded so defeated. He turned and reached for her.

"Of course you can," he said gently. "It's what you do best. All that mumbo-jumbo psycho-babble—you make it sound interesting."

To Sherlock's relief, Rose's face brightened and a tiny laugh escaped her.

"Do I really?"

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "A bit interesting. You sound interested, anyway."

Rose laughed again, a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes that warmed Sherlock's heart. She brought her arms up and encircled Sherlock's neck. Her expression grew serious again.

"You're a wonderful man."

"I know."

"But I need to change some things. And studying takes up too much of my time." Her arms slipped down to his chest and she dropped her gaze. "I need to work full-time."

"No," Sherlock said. "Your plans were to study. You're going to do this, and I'm going to help you with the rest." When Rose's eyes met his again, Sherlock added, "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Sherlock—"

"No, Rose. Just let me help. You said you can't do this on your own, and you shouldn't have to anyway. That's why I'm here. Come on."

Sherlock ushered Rose out of the room and was relieved she complied. He seated her at the small breakfast table across from the kitchen and said, waving his hand at the bag she'd deposited on it earlier, "Your books. Arrange them around you on the table so you look busy and important."

Rose's face had softened, and Sherlock was glad his faux-flippant attitude was making her relax. He told her he'd make her coffee instead of Earl Grey since she needed more caffeine to stay awake. After he remarked that he'd be in the living room watching telly should she needed anything, Rose's expression grew concerned.

"I'll… join you," she said. "I'll use the table in there."

The formal dining table sat to one side of the living room, but Sherlock had thought Rose would enjoy the peace and solitude the kitchen provided. Perhaps she needed his company instead?

"It'll be like the old days," she said, standing up and stacking her books together.

Sherlock felt warmed at the thought of the 'old days.' Rose would quietly study at her dining table in Leinster Gardens, while Sherlock tutted loudly at the telly, hoping he'd interrupt Rose enough times for her to join him for snuggling on the sofa. Should he hold out hope that their first evening back together would reach the same happy ending?

Probably not, he thought, as he helped carry the rest of Rose's books through the adjoining door to the living room. He wasn't going to disturb Rose with impatient scoffs at whatever programme was on the telly. Finishing her tutorial presentation was more important than snuggling.

Sherlock prepared Rose's coffee and his tea, then settled onto the sofa for a night's viewing with the sound turned down low. He wasn't really watching anyway; he favoured straining to hear the sound of Rose's brain ticking over, then he'd know she was going to be okay.

After a couple of hours of not really watching any programme, Sherlock yawned widely.

"You should go to bed," Rose said from across the room.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replied, stifling another yawn.

"There's no point in both of us being over-tired tomorrow. You have to look after yourself as well."

Sherlock rose from the sofa and made his way over to her.

"Go on," Rose said with an encouraging smile. "I'm nearly finished anyway. There's no need for you to stay up."

"Well, if you think so," Sherlock replied noncommittally.

He glanced at his watch. It was well after midnight. It had been a long day for him, commencing with rising early to visit Craig and asking him to hack into every system possible for data on Rose and her family. Then there was the journey north, via Newcastle, and finally purchasing a new car and booking into the apartment. He could close his eyes just for a minute, then come back out to make Rose another cuppa if she needed it.

"I'll be in the other bedroom just along the corridor, if you need me," Sherlock added. The pang in his heart told him that was not where he wanted to sleep. Curled around Rose's warm body in the main bedroom was his preference, but he didn't want to make any assumptions regarding Rose and their relationship status.

When Rose said, "Okay, thanks, goodnight," and bent her head over her notebook once more, Sherlock's stomach flipped. He drifted away through the door on the other side of the sofa that led to the corridor and the bedrooms beyond. Rose wasn't ready to resume their relationship, he concluded. Or perhaps, worse: she didn't love him anymore. Obviously, she was relieved and grateful for his offer of help, but…

She didn't say, "I love you," in return when Sherlock had said it to her earlier.

Closing the door to the bedroom, he sighed. He had already purchased for himself some necessary items upon arriving in Edinburgh, which he had placed in the bedroom earlier that evening. With a heavy heart, Sherlock slipped into new pyjamas and turned down the covers of the bed.

Perhaps he'd go back out and see if Rose wanted a top up now?

But the lead weight that lined his stomach forced him to abandon that idea. He may just have to accept that their relationship as he once knew it was no more. He would still help and support her. Of that there was no question. She was carrying his baby, after all. And he still loved her and always would.

His heart wrenched from his chest at the thought of his unrequited love. Is this what it felt like?

With these thoughts flitting through Sherlock's mind, he was sure he'd never get to sleep, but his limbs felt heavy and he could feel himself sinking into the mattress.

He wasn't aware he'd fallen asleep and had been that way for quite some time, when the opening of his bedroom door roused him from his slumber. Rose's silhouette filled the doorway.

"What?" he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows. "Everything all right?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you," came Rose's hesitant voice.

Sherlock reached over and flipped on the bedside light.

"I wasn't asleep," he lied.

Rose looked like she had also been sleeping, or at least tossing and turning. How long had he been out for? Was it morning already?

"I couldn't sleep," Rose said, slowly approaching the bed.

"Oh," Sherlock said, immediately pulling himself upright. "Do you want another cup of tea?" His mind was hazy and not yet fully started. A need for tea was the only thing his brain was capable of retrieving.

He swivelled and dropped his feet to the floor.

"No… thank you," Rose said. She forced a tiny smile to her face. "I was wondering… if I could lie next to you… just for a bit."

Sherlock froze, his body poised to leave the bed. Turning to climb back in felt unnatural, but he tried to manage it as casually as possible.

"Yeah, okay."

He shuffled over, leaving his side of the bed vacant for Rose. His heart thumped awkwardly. He wasn't sure of her intentions, nor confident in his ability to keep his distance… if that was what she wanted.

Rose slipped in beside him and switched off the bedside lamp. Her quiet 'thank you' floated through the darkness. Sherlock lay flat on his back with his fingers laced together on top of the covers. He became aware of his own breathing. He didn't know if it was too fast or too slow. But now he had to monitor it, because he couldn't make his conscious mind relinquish control.

"Sherlock?" Rose whispered.

"Mm?"

Sherlock heard the sound of Rose shuffling closer and then her warm body brushed against his.

"Could you hold me for a bit?"

Nothing felt more natural in the world than slipping his arms around Rose and having her rest her head on his chest. But he felt like an insensitive prick for not thinking to hold her himself. Her body moulded perfectly to his. Rose shuddered, and then a quiet sob escaped her.

"It's okay," he said softly.

Sherlock felt her trembling in his arms—silently crying, he surmised—so he held her tightly, intermittently rubbing her arm and murmuring that everything would be okay. She was giving herself over to him. It must've been hard when she had thought she had to cope on her own. Guilt riddled Sherlock's body. He should've returned to Edinburgh sooner!

Eventually, he felt her grow still and heavy on his chest. He kept his arms around her, and found himself drifting off. This was almost the perfect way to end the day, with the exception of Rose's past trauma manifesting itself as a total emotional breakdown.

When the room grew slightly lighter, Sherlock felt Rose leave his side. Because she padded silently out of the bedroom, he concluded she didn't want to talk to him just yet. He lay in bed for a little while, contemplating their immediate future. There were too many unknowns. He didn't know how much of his help Rose would accept.

He left the bedroom for the kitchen, noting along the way that Rose was taking a shower. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then placed the tea cups on the counter and had bread ready to go in the toaster for Rose's breakfast.

Sherlock leant heavily against the kitchen counter, his head bowed. He drew in a calming breath. His heart rate was slightly elevated. He hated this… this uncertainty.

Enjoy not getting involved, came his brother's smarmy voice. Mycroft had recited variants of the same sentiment to Sherlock all his life. Was this why? Because it hurt? There was an actual physiological pain in his heart due to his feelings for Rose and whether or not they were reciprocated.

"You know you actually have to press down the lever," came Rose's voice from behind him.

Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie.

"What?"

He turned to her, thinking there was something he'd omitted to do to kickstart their relationship, before he followed Rose's gaze to the toaster.

"Oh. I was waiting for you to appear." He depressed the lever, locking it in place, and added, "It's not for me. Would you like some toast?"

Rose replied that she did, and thanked him before she opened the door adjoining the living area. She continued talking to Sherlock through the open doorway, telling him she'd finished preparing her presentation last night, and she felt quite confident about it. She stacked up her papers and books and chatted comfortably at him as if the previous night's issues, and the early hours of this morning, hadn't occurred.

Sherlock drifted toward the doorway and casually leant against it as Rose told him about the over-representation of foreign incarceration in the UK.

His heart began to lift again. Rose was in much better spirits this morning, almost like her old self. He congratulated himself for convincing her to continue her studies. He knew she enjoyed it and she was good at it—much like he was when it came to his own work. Take that away, and he'd only live a half-existence.

Sherlock realised he had tuned out. It didn't matter, really. He just enjoyed seeing her enthusiastic about something again.

"…lift to uni?"

Rose was looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, rejoining the here and now.

"Could you give me a lift to uni?"

"Yes," he said, straightening up. "Of course. That's why I'm here. At your service." He smiled broadly and was rewarded with a smile in return.

"And then I've got an Ethics lecture. And after that, a couple of tutoring sessions with—"

"I thought your tutoring session was this morning?"

"No," Rose said, smiling amiably as she zipped up her backpack now laden with books. "This morning is my assessment task. I have to deliver a presentation to my seminar group. It's called a tutorial, confusingly. This afternoon, I actually tutor a couple of undergrads in Psychology at twenty-five pounds an hour. I enjoy it, actually."

Sherlock frowned. He had thought there would be no further need for Rose to be running about the city working herself into the ground at cafes and pubs and volunteering at the community centre in between studying. Would she be willing to give up her tutoring sessions as well if he offered to support her financially?

But all he said in reply was, "Oh. Okay."

Leaving Rose and her toast laden with black cherry jam, Sherlock excused himself to have a shower and get dressed for the day. He missed his designer suits and slim-fitting shirts. Jeans and shirts off the rack were the staples for Scott Williams.

As they were leaving, Rose pointed out the area where she had shopped with her cousin or somebody of no real significance to Sherlock. He concluded she was doing that nervous chattering again. Many topics of conversation were covered during their drive to Rose's university campus—the perils of driving through peak hour traffic; the dull lives of the two women Rose offered tutoring services to; the type of people she saw during the counselling sessions; and, finally, the unpredictable Edinburgh weather.

Sherlock's contribution to the conversation consisted of phrases like, "Is it?" or "Do they?" interspersed with confirmation nods or an "Mm" or two. But all the while, playing in the background of his mind, was the recording on an endless loop of "Does she love me, or doesn't she?" He couldn't read the answer in the words she spoke, nor the way she spoke them.

Finally, after they pulled into the university carpark, and Sherlock stopped the car at the kerb, he sighed and said, "So… five-thirty, was it?"

Rose gave him an odd look—one of curious incredulity.

"What?" he asked.

"You," Rose replied, a faint look of amusement on her face.

"What about me?"

Rose seemed to scan him from head to toe, which Sherlock found slightly disconcerting.

"You're driving your girlfriend to and from uni," she said, causing Sherlock's heart to twinge at her use of the word 'girlfriend.' "And you're dressed as Mr Average Joe… or William… Scott or whoever."

"Scott Williams."

"Yes, well…" She paused, as if to gather her thoughts. "This isn't you, is it? This isn't Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm not supposed to be. I'm—"

"How long can you keep this up for?"

Her question threw him. How long—? Was this some kind of test? His chest expanded at the thought of a challenge in which he could excel. Sherlock had once lived an undercover life for three whole months on the streets of London, right under the nose of his sticky-beak brother, and of course, there was two whole years not being Sherlock Holmes on continental Europe, breaking up Moriarty's network. How long?

"As long as necessary."

Rose gave Sherlock a grim smile, one that he cared little for.

"Well, we'll have to talk about logistics and things. I kind of like Sherlock Holmes."

Rose grabbed her bag from the floor beside her, while Sherlock's stomach flipped. He had that feeling of being inadequate again.

"'Bye, Sherlock," Rose said, looking up at him, with hope in her eyes.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What?"

"Goodbye."

Panic seized Sherlock's heart. She was doing this again—pushing him away. His throat began to constrict.

"Why?" he croaked.

"Because," she said, her smile growing on her face, "I have my presentation to deliver… remember?"

Sherlock blinked a couple of times to reset. For Christ's sake! What was wrong with him.

"Oh. You're saying goodbye for the day." What an moron, he was! Sherlock released the shaky breath he'd been holding.

But he didn't understand the way Rose was looking at him right now. What did she expect of him?

"How about a goodbye kiss?" she asked.

Was she… was she attempting to stifle a laugh?

"So, we're doing that again are we?" Sherlock asked, unamused. Rose's emotions had been all over the shop during the last half day in his company. How was he supposed to know that kissing was now acceptable again?

"Well, I would hope so."

Rose leant forward expectantly. Sherlock stayed where he was. He threw a glance toward the windscreen, then past Rose and out the passenger side window lest they were being watched. Other students were striding toward the buildings, or standing in untidy clumps and talking about dull academics probably. Rose's light chuckle drew his gaze back to her.

She lifted her hand to caress Sherlock's face.

"I love you," she said softly, her eyes beginning to glisten.

This time his heart actually somersaulted and he felt his cheeks redden.

"Oh."

It was a realisation and not a negative response. Sherlock hadn't been prepared for her utterance, that's all.

"Did you think I didn't?"

"Well… you spent last night an incoherent mess, when you weren't studying, that is. I had no idea, Rose. I can't read you any more."

Her smile faltered a little. "I'm sorry you didn't know that." As her eyes moistened, Sherlock realised he didn't want her to get upset again and he struggled in vein to think of something cheery to say. But Rose added, maintaining a steady voice, "I never stopped loving you, in spite of what I said before." Sherlock could feel the tension leaving his body. He forced a reassuring smile to his face.

Rose appeared to recompose herself, her face brightening again. "Just kiss me, Sherlock. I have to go."

This, he could do.

Sherlock narrowed the gap between them and experimentally brushed his lips against Rose's. New rules were being written every second, and Sherlock was the last one to learn of them, apparently. When Rose's lips parted, he at least knew what that meant. But he was wary of the arousal the taste and feel of her would provoke in him. In the car. At this hour. And then he would have her absence for the entire day to deal with.

Sherlock drew back, breaking their kiss, and murmured, "I love you, too."

Rose emitted a tiny sigh as she, too, straightened up.

"Bye, Rose."

"Five-thirty, then," she said, grasping the door handle and giving him one last smile.

Sherlock fixed her with a broad grin and said, "I'll grab something for dinner." When Rose quirked an eyebrow, he added, "Or Scott will. I have no idea. Probably chips or something. Is there a chip shop nearby?"

"I think so," Rose said, with a tiny laugh. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

.


Author's Note:

Thanks for reading! This chapter was more difficult to write than I had initially anticipated. I think a chapter of fluff is now in order. Who's keen for that?