Chapter 79 – The Beginning of a New Chapter
Rose spied Sherlock's car in the location he had texted her only moments ago. With every step, her heart-rate quickened. Clearly her outlook on life had changed for the better. Her morning routine used to consist of mentally running through the day's obligations and logistics—where she had to be at any given moment, what type of energy she needed to expend; was it a physical or an emotional investment? And what personal sacrifices would she have to make in order to accomplish everything?
Her load had been lightened thanks to Sherlock's return and her own change of heart. Her reaction to the dramatic changes in her life was long overdue. She should've dealt with her emotions at the time, but she kept thinking each moment was not convenient. She was far from fine, but the process of healing had begun. Rose knew this process would be greatly enhanced by sharing her experiences. She had baulked at the idea of a group counselling session, but she now had someone in whom she could confide and trust with her story.
But for the moment, she had a whole range of things to organise for this evening, and she required Sherlock's input for that as well.
"Hello," she said, puffing lightly as she sank into the passenger seat. "Now, about tonight, I hope you don't mind, but I need to go back to the house in Niddrie and get another change of clothes. I want to reassure Olivia that I'll be back tomorrow morning to clean. I've got Friday mornings off, so it's my cleaning day." She flashed Sherlock a brief smile before pulling on her seat belt. "I clean the house once a week in exchange for low rent. Now, I know what—"
"Rose."
"—you're going to say, but I'm committed to the rest of the month. Even if I—"
"Rose."
"—live… stay… with you for a bit, I—"
"Rose. Wait."
Rose paused and looked properly at Sherlock for the first time since she'd entered the car.
"What?"
One corner of Sherlock's mouth was curved upwards, and Rose was warmed to see his eyes glistening.
"How about a proper hello?" he asked.
Rose's heart stuttered and her mind ceased the endless racing it had been doing all afternoon. Too much caffeine, she had decided. She'd hardly slept at all last night, and the crying had taken it out of her. When her energy levels had begun to flag dramatically by lunch time, she'd over-caffeinated to compensate.
"Sorry," she said, smiling sheepishly.
Rose leant toward Sherlock. Tiny butterflies flitted through her stomach as he brought a gentle hand to the nape of her neck and softly kissed her with skillful precision. Rose felt desire drizzle through her. She returned his kiss in equal measure, languishing in the taste of him, but not daring to demand more.
When he drew back, his eyes were glistening.
"Hello, Rose," he said, his voice hovering a mere semitone above sultry bedroom level.
Rose felt herself flush. How ridiculous!
"Sherlock," she managed to say, maintaining a steady voice.
Sherlock put the car in reverse, and casually glanced through the rearview mirror.
"You were saying something?" he asked, turning to look over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic.
Rose repeated everything she had told him only moments ago, in a less frantic pace than before. She added that she would normally work a shift at the Craigmillar Pub tonight, but she had called in sick.
"I'll have to give them notice," she said. "And the café as well. That's if…"
She glanced at Sherlock. He was concentrating on navigating the car through the semi-congested car park.
"Well..." she continued. "We do need to talk about this, don't we?"
"I thought that's what we were doing," Sherlock replied congenially, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead.
Rose could feel an enormous pressure building up inside her. She assumed she could give up her late night jobs. But what if Sherlock became totally unreasonable? What if his help and support came with caveats? He always had such grand ideas.
"I know what you're thinking," Sherlock said, breaking into her thoughts.
"I thought you couldn't read me."
"That was before, when you were deliberately keeping things from me. Your body language was at odds with the words you spoke. The whole package," he added, idly waving a hand in her direction, "was a mass of contradictions."
"Okay, then," she said, sighing.
"We're in this together." Sherlock reached for Rose's hand and gave it a little squeeze. "There's no you or me, there's only us."
When Rose's brow lifted, Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile.
"Yes, okay. I read that somewhere," he said. "But the sentiment still stands. What's mine is yours. It's not a question of me paying for sexual favours anymore."
"I know. We're beyond that."
Sherlock brought the back of Rose's hand to his lips and kissed it.
"It's a partnership," he said, smiling broadly.
Sherlock let go of Rose's hand as they meandered their way out of Sighthill and merged onto the Edinburgh City Bypass. Tension had left her body in waves, but there was still the question of where they were going to live, for she would never return to London, and she couldn't see Sherlock Holmes relocating to Edinburgh.
"Let me tell you about my plans for studying," she said, thinking she may as well lay all her cards on the table. "My course is delivered over three trimesters—it's only a one year course, full-time…"
"I know."
"So, I was only going to finish this first trimester, then defer while I found a full-time job. I intended working up until my due date, but then…" Rose paused, her thoughts daring to go where they would normally hover. I'll have a baby, she finished, reluctant to say the words out loud. She realised there would come a time when she would cease being pregnant—that temporary state that seemed to exist on another plane of reality—and start having an actual baby to look after. She'd be a mother.
"Um…" she said, losing track of her thoughts momentarily. "And then I'll—"
"It's all academic now," Sherlock said with a conspiratorial smile. "Knowing the precise date of conception, I've calculated your due date as the sixteenth of September. The second trimester of your course ends in August. All going well, you could possibly continue studying up until your due date. It's not imperative you find work leading up to the baby's birth. And you'll have two trimesters of your course completed, leaving the third to be deferred until such time as you feel ready for it." He finished by taking his eyes from the road momentarily and gifting Rose with a triumphant smile, the corners of his mouth stretched wide.
He seemed quite content with a plan that solved the many issues that had kept her awake on endless nights. This warmed Rose considerably.
"That would be amazing," she said, more to herself than to Sherlock, as she scanned the view outside her window. To have two thirds of my course completed!
"Yes, I know. I even amaze myself sometimes."
A spontaneous laugh bubbled up inside and escaped Rose. Sherlock cast her a sideways glance, a mixture of amusement and pride on his face. They drove in silence for a little while, with Rose contemplating how everything was actually going to work.
Sherlock had leant one elbow up on his door as he drove, his temple resting against his knuckles. Now and again he'd rub his fingers along his brow.
Finally, he dropped his arm and said, "Why get clothes for tonight only? We should pack up all your belongings." Sherlock's brow was furrowed as if this matter really concerned him. Did he think she wouldn't want to stay with him? If he was confused, it was her own fault really.
"Well, I…" She didn't have any reason not to—not really. "I don't know. I suppose we could."
She'd have to let Olivia know, obviously. The ex-social worker was quite militant about keeping abusive ex-partners away from the women she sheltered. Not that Rose ever implied that was the cause of her need for cheap rent.
"What are you worried about?" Sherlock asked. "I know the apartment's not the most secure building, but it's the best I could find at short notice. Obviously, if I purchase it outright, I'll get security locks in—"
"Purchase? Sherlock, I think I'd much rather rent somewhere close to uni."
"Nonsense. And live in an area surrounded by riff-raff?"
"Yes."
Sherlock scoffed, causing Rose's insides to churn. She felt his gaze upon her as she stared darkly out of the window, wondering what rights she had if he was going to pay for everything. When his hand stole hers she turned to him.
"Wherever you want to live is fine by me," he said, glancing her way, before concentrating on the road once more. "Rose." He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. "You know I'll be travelling from London…"
"I know, Sherlock."
"As often as I can."
"I know."
"Where you live… and where I stay… It has to be secure."
She was about to query how often Sherlock would visit, when he asked, "I assume you saw the Moriarty broadcast on New Year's Day?"
"What? Oh… yes. I heard about it, but I thought it was a hoax… wasn't it?"
"Not a hoax, no," Sherlock said carefully. "But not a live broadcast. He's dead. There's no doubt about that."
"Then what was the point of it?"
Sherlock's hands clenched around the steering wheel.
"He's planned something," he said in a low voice. "A posthumous game. I'll know what it is when I see it."
"Something for you?"
Sherlock's gaze appeared to sharpen as they accelerated along the highway.
"There would be no point to his game if it wasn't intended for me. He recorded that message before he died to be played at some point in the future should he not make it off that roof."
Rose didn't like where this conversation was headed. She was reminded of the end result of James Moriarty's game-playing with Sherlock three years ago. A game that resulted in Sherlock's fake suicide and two year absence. Her heart filled with dread.
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock inhaled deeply and gave Rose a grim smile.
"I will keep you safe." These weren't words that filled Rose with any sense of security. "Not that Moriarty would know anything about you," Sherlock continued. "He made these plans before his death, and at that time you were no more significant to me than my dry-cleaner."
"Thanks," Rose said with false bravado. "I had no idea you were having sex with your dry-cleaner."
"You know what I mean."
Rose could feel her chest tighten. This wasn't how she thought their reconciliation would go. Was Sherlock going to disappear abroad again, in pursuit of James Moriarty's rabbit trails? He was going to be a… a father.
"What are you going to do?" she asked reluctantly.
"Nothing at all."
When Rose furrowed her brow, Sherlock added, "Don't worry. I'm not going leave England again." A sheepish smile crossed his face. "Well, except for frequent visits to Scotland."
Sherlock told Rose he would prefer it if they bought a flat outright, rather than rent. With renting came the possibility of nosy and intrusive landlords. Rose tended to agree with Sherlock, especially if one of the tenants was going to disappear to London for days (or weeks?) at a time. He reiterated the point that he wanted their residence to be Rose's choice, adding that she should choose from the upper end of the market.
"Or a nice area where families live," she contributed, causing Sherlock to blink rapidly a few times without looking at her. Now what did that mean?
When they pulled up outside the half-way house in Niddrie, Sherlock asked Rose if she wanted him to accompany her inside.
"Um… just give me a few minutes?"
She didn't want to turn up at the doorstep with a person of the male persuasion, and then inform Olivia that she was moving out with him. Her landlady and sometime support would jump to the wrong conclusion.
Rose had decided to ease Olivia into the idea of Sherlock's existence, or rather, Scott William's existence. She grabbed another change of clothes for tomorrow and told Olivia she'd collect the rest of her things after she finished cleaning the house tomorrow morning. And she told Olivia that the father of her baby was back in her life, taking care to mention that he didn't know she was expecting in the first place, hence his initial absence.
Sherlock didn't seem at all concerned with the slight change in plans. Rose told Sherlock all about Olivia and the work she did at a women's refuge, as well as the transient occupants of her house, which included Annabelle, the prostitute Sherlock had seen last night.
They stopped at a supermarket on the way back through the city. Rose wanted to purchase a couple of special things to surprise Sherlock with, plus pick up ingredients for dinner when it became clear he had completely forgotten about his offer that morning to grab something. He still insisted on chips, but then contradicted himself when he informed Rose she was neglecting her diet.
Rose was partly relieved Sherlock hadn't gone grocery shopping for ingredients to fix their evening meal. It wouldn't be characteristic of him if he did. He insisted on accompanying her into the shop, but when he stood in the entrance, blinking up at the lights and slowly scanning the store in every direction, Rose asked if he was all right.
"I'm fine. You go and do your… shopping thing. I'm going to investigate."
"Investigate what?"
"Everything," he said distractedly, seemingly mesmerised by something in the distance.
He drifted off, leaving Rose to wonder if Sherlock Holmes had ever set foot inside a supermarket before.
Sherlock furrowed his brow at the enormous salad Rose had asked him to prepare. It sat in its multi-coloured, multi-textured layers in the electric frying pan—the only vessel in the entire holiday apartment that could hold it.
There's still an over-abundance of lettuce, Sherlock thought, internally tutting. Surely Rose hadn't meant for him to use all of the vegetables. What had she been thinking? He had to use the whole bag of carrots and tomatoes just so the lettuce wasn't as dominant.
After rearranging the shelving in the narrow fridge, he stowed the entire appliance inside it. He wondered how Rose was faring, so he left the kitchen to find out.
The door to the main bathroom was open, which was always a welcome sign. In the tub Rose was lying almost fully submerged beneath the bubbles. Only her facial features were visible. Sherlock leant against the doorframe, a smile playing on his lips.
"That salad should last you an entire week, or more," he said.
Rose pulled herself out of the water a little.
"Why's that?"
"You wanted me to use all of the vegetables," he replied, shrugging lightly.
Naturally Rose began to laugh. Sherlock had been half-expecting that reaction.
"Not all," she said eventually. "I just wanted you to make a salad for two—for both of us—using bits of all of… Oh, Sherlock. Did you use an entire head of lettuce?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose. If that was something he shouldn't have done, she should've made her request a little clearer.
"Well," he said, huffing a sigh, "you should be eating healthily anyway. Just so you know, I've downloaded an eating plan I found on a pregnancy website. You've already missed weeks one through fourteen. Don't feel as if you need to catch up. But it's going to need another trip to the supermarket."
Sherlock made to leave the bathroom when Rose called him back.
"I'm all done here," she said, waving the bar of newly purchased coconut-scented soap in the air before placing it in the soap dish. "Why don't you join me?"
"You know how I feel about sex in the bath, Rose."
"Yes," she replied, laughing lightly. "And that's why we only have foreplay in here."
Sherlock didn't immediately respond. He was outlining a future scenario in his mind.
"No," he said in conclusion. "The hallway is carpeted. We'll drip water all over it trying to make it to the bedroom. That's irresponsible."
"Says the man who loves Cluedo."
"Where do you want your salad?" Sherlock asked, endeavouring to change the subject from the ridiculous to the mundane. "The kitchen table or the living room table?"
With a tiny sigh, Rose tilted her head and leant it back on the edge of bathtub.
"You choose."
Sherlock stifled an eye-roll and made his way back to the kitchen. Domestic duties had begun to pall after spending almost three quarters of an hour making a salad fit for about thirty people. He didn't know how much longer Rose was going to be, so he pulled out a dining chair and sank down onto it. Sherlock was aware his phone had beeped several times over the course of the evening, so he set about trawling through his inbox for interesting cases.
Several minutes later, as he was rapidly typing a reply to D.I. Hopkins, he felt Rose's hand on his shoulder just before the all-too-familiar scent of coconut caressed his olfactory system.
"Would you like me to serve up the salad now?" Rose asked. "I can steam some chicken, too, if you like."
Sherlock felt a welcome stirring as he looked up at Rose. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, and her damp hair was twisted over one shoulder. There was a faint smile on her lips, one that belied her intention to simply supply him with dinner.
"Only if serving up a salad is a euphemism for something else," he declared, venturing to voice his own desires.
Rose bent a little until her lips were hovering over his. She whispered, "I've decided I want it on the living room table."
Sherlock's heart began to race as Rose drifted into the next room. Standing up and adjusting his jeans, he wondered what the hell steaming some chicken was a euphemism for. He guessed he was about to find out.
"Just as I thought," Rose said, as she lay in Sherlock's arms and showed him his phone's screen. "It's from Ikea."
Sherlock glanced at the screen. He had told her the lamp that had fallen victim to their living room antics wasn't a priceless antique, so Rose assumed it came from Ikea, since she had recognised other items in the flat as originating from the Swedish superstore.
"I'll pick one up tomorrow while you're at uni," Sherlock said.
Rose chuckled at the idea of Sherlock attempting to navigate the maze of showrooms for just one item.
"No, we'll go out there together on the weekend. I'm not letting you wander unescorted around Ikea. I'll never find you again. Now, come on." She stood up and crossed the living room to retrieve her dressing gown. Pulling it around her, she said, "You were going to make me a cup of tea while I look for that house in the suburbs I was talking about."
Sherlock silently acquiesced. He grabbed his clothes from the floor and left the living area, stark naked—a view that didn't go unappreciated by Rose.
She sank back down onto the sofa, grabbing Sherlock's phone from the coffee table to use instead of her own, which was probably in her bag on the other side of the room. Part-way through her Ethics lecture that afternoon, she had started searching student accommodation websites, before realising she was no longer limited by a meagre budget. The notion filled her with a mild panic, before she calmed down and once more told herself she had to learn to accept help from Sherlock. Like he said: they were in this together.
She had found a lovely Victorian detached house in Morningside, with its own garden, near schools and shops and less than five minutes from the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. That was convenient. During the lecture, she began day-dreaming about having her own tiny garden and teaching their baby to toddle about in red wellies on uneven ground. And then her sensible side kicked in, and she began browsing small flats instead.
But she had mentioned the house to Sherlock, and he was adamant they go with her first choice.
"Money is no object, Rose," he had said. "I know that's your first concern, but it needn't be."
As they lay entangled on the sofa, post-coitus, with Sherlock gently stroking her arm—rewiring his entorhinal cortex with her new-old scent, he had informed her—Rose had sensibly moved on to finding a replacement lamp.
But now as she navigated Sherlock's phone to the properties for sale website, she was filled with tiny jitters of excitement. This was on top of the overall tingle she still experienced from their love-making earlier. Sherlock still surprised her with his enthusiasm and dexterity. He wasn't drunk or high this time. Perhaps it was because he hadn't had sex in nearly two months. Well, neither had she, come to think of it.
From the kitchen, she heard Sherlock click on the kettle.
"Do you want normal tea," he called through the open doorway, "or that fancy flower thingy?"
"The fancy flower thingy," she replied. Also known as chamomile, she thought, smiling to herself. "I'll text you the address," she added.
"Just tell me," Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway holding two empty tea mugs. He was now dressed in his pyjamas and a dressing gown. "I'll remember."
When he disappeared again, Rose said, "No, I'll text it. I don't want you buying the wrong house because you misheard one digit."
Sherlock appeared in the doorway once more as Rose left the sofa for her bag, which was lying on the floor near the dining table.
"Just don't begin your text with 'Hi,'" he said, turning away again. "I don't read social chit-chat messages. In fact, I delete them."
Rose chuckled to herself as she drew out her phone. Why would he delete messages from her?
Returning to the sofa, Rose navigated through Sherlock's contacts on his phone, looking for her own listing. When she couldn't immediately find it under either her first name or surname, she typed in her number until it came up with a match in his contacts:
Edinburgh
Nice one, Sherlock, she thought. Then, feeling frivolous, she downloaded an image of the blue and red stripes of the Edinburgh Rose amateur football club. She'd heard her second cousin Malcolm and his best mate Adrian talking about it. They'd caught her attention when they'd mentioned 'Rose' until she realised they were talking about football. Besides, nobody in Scotland called her Rose anyway. Both of them played for the Inter Edinburgh Football Club and they were analysing play by play how they had lost to 'Rose' on the weekend.
Rose decided to change the text alert noise for Edinburgh Rose as well, so Sherlock would know it was her and wouldn't delete or ignore her messages. Scrolling through the list of ringtones, she noticed one called 'Ah.' She selected it and was surprised to hear a female sigh of satisfaction. Rose began giggling. She'd not heard that one before.
"Did you say something?" Sherlock called out.
"No," Rose replied, attempting to stifle her laughter.
"Are you supposed to have milk and sugar with this… this flower thingy?"
"No."
"Bugger."
Sherlock eventually emerged from the kitchen with both cups of tea as Rose was pressing Send on her text message to him containing the address of the house in Morningside. He froze when his phone lit up and sighed at him from its position on the coffee table. Rose started giggling again. Sherlock's brow furrowed as his gaze drifted from the phone to Rose.
"Was that…?"
"Yes," Rose replied with a tiny laugh.
Sherlock placed the mugs of tea down onto the coffee table before snatching up his phone. He glanced at the message, his expression unreadable, before silently replacing the phone again. Rose made room for him on the sofa, drawing her legs up and plumping out a cushion behind her.
Sherlock nonchalantly reached for his mug of tea and leant back into the sofa, giving Rose room to stretch her legs across his lap.
"So you changed your text alert noise," Sherlock said before taking a sip of tea.
"Yes, I did."
"And that's the tone you like the most, is it?"
"I didn't get very far."
Sherlock quietly sipped his tea once more.
"So… what is that?" Rose asked, not being able to wait a moment longer. "Or should I ask, who is that? It's not a standard ringtone from Apple."
Sherlock inhaled deeply and sighed before answering.
"A client from years ago. She… she personalised her text alert noise as a bit of a joke."
Intriguing. How did this woman get a hold of Sherlock's phone? And why had she played that particular kind of joke on Sherlock? But Rose knew Sherlock Holmes well enough now to know when he was faking a calm demeanour. She'd seen it last year, when he pretended not to panic during her initial explanation about how to play Cluedo.
"So, if she texts you, you won't know if it's her or me?"
"Oh, I'll know it's you," Sherlock replied. He patted Rose's legs before he leant forward and placed his tea onto the table so he could retrieve his phone again. "I deleted her contact details. There's no one else who has that text alert noise now."
Rose watched Sherlock as he tapped away at his phone.
"Mm, looks nice," he said. Clearly he was now looking at the house, and attempting to change the subject.
"I can change it if it bothers you."
"No, no. You like the garden."
"I'm talking about the text alert noise."
Sherlock momentarily paused in swiping through the photo gallery pictures of the house.
"Did you chose it," he asked, "or did it randomly become attached to your—"
"I chose it."
"Well, then, it's fine."
"I won't text you all the time."
"It's fine, Rose."
"Just in an emergency. You know, like I'm having a baby! That sort of emergency. I'd rather ring you for a chat if you hate reading chatty text messages."
"Fine. Although, you really should ring me if you go into labour and I'm not here." He paused, a smile spreading across his face. "But I do expect to be here before your due date."
"I could go into labour any time during—"
"I'll be here, Rose."
Rose withdrew her legs from Sherlock's lap and swivelled so she could retrieve her own cuppa. Sherlock began tapping out a message on his phone.
"All done," he said, pressing one final key with a flourish.
"Done what?"
"I've just texted my agent. We're putting in an offer on that house."
Rose's breath caught in her throat. Just like that, they were buying a house.
"You have an agent? But how… how can you afford this," she asked, "when you've had to flatshare in London?"
"That was years ago. The British Government owe me, especially for my efforts around Europe. They think they have to give me huge sums of money on a regular basis to keep my mouth shut about all sorts of things I've uncovered, plus they think I deserve some sort of compensation for ridding the world of James Moriarty and his criminal networks in lieu of a knighthood. I've accumulated a stupid amount of money, Rose, and I've filtered it through various channels so it's now available for Scott Williams to purchase things for his family."
He gifted her with one final smile before rising from the sofa and looking about him. Rose's heart was thumping and her head swam at Sherlock's words, His family.
"Now," he declared, "where's your bag? Didn't you say you had one of those sewing things in there?"
"No. You're not going to, Sherlock."
"Ah."
Sherlock strode purposefully toward Rose's handbag that he'd spied on a dining chair.
"I said 'no,'" Rose protested as Sherlock rifled through her bag. They had discussed this as they lay on the sofa earlier, with Sherlock gently caressing her rounded belly. She thought she'd made her wishes quite clear.
"And I said I need to obtain this information for myself."
Triumphantly, Sherlock pulled out the sewing kit from Rose's bag. Opening the tiny plastic box, he retrieved a measuring tape.
"I get this done at the clinic," Rose said.
"And I need to do my own monitoring and keep my own records."
"So hack into the clinic's computer system like you'd normally do."
Sherlock crossed the living room, unravelling the tape as he approached Rose.
"And where's the fun in that?" he said, smiling. "Come on, Rose." Sherlock slid the tape between his fingers. "Lie down. This won't hurt a bit."
.
Author's Note:
Apologies for this chapter taking longer than usual to deliver. But when the words started to flow, they wouldn't stop! I ended up deleting the scene that takes place in the supermarket because the chapter was getting longer than I wanted it to be. That scene is just under 700 words. I have many deleted scenes floating about after years of writing this story. It's a pity they end up nowhere. So… as an added thank you to those you take the time to give me feedback, I'll send the deleted scene "Sherlock in Tesco" via PM to those who leave a review on this chapter! :D It's just a bit of frivolity with Sherlock being Sherlock. I hope you enjoy it!
And yes! Rose now has Irene Adler's text alert noise. Guess who that text was from at the end of The Lying Detective... here's a clue: NOT The Woman :D
