Chapter 80 – Families Fall Out
Rose used the back of her gloved hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. The smell of disinfectant made her head swim, so she swiftly left the bathroom she had just finished cleaning. Downstairs, Olivia was attempting to sooth Annabelle's nine-month-old. The landlady looked up at Rose with a frown of disapproval.
"All done," Rose said. "And I've put a load of Annabelle's clothes in the washing machine. Here…" Rose pulled off her rubber gloves and reached for the infant.
"'e needs feedin'," Olivia said, handing over the baby. "And there's nowt—"
Rose nodded towards the sink where she had dumped the three dirty bottles she'd retrieved from Annabelle's room earlier. Rose had tidied and cleaned around the passed out mother. She wasn't supposed to clean individual bedrooms, but she couldn't stand the thought of baby Jack sleeping and playing in such a dump.
"You shouldnae go in there," Olivia said, turning to the sink.
"Can you shut that thing up," came a voice rough from sleep and heavy smoking the night before.
A dishevelled young woman came shuffling into the kitchen, her thick, overly-hairsprayed tresses untamed, and her eyeliner and mascara smudged around her puffy eyes. Annabelle still wore the same tight lycra dress she had on the night before.
"Who do I have-tae fuck around here tae get meself a cuppa tea?" Annabelle said, sinking down onto a chair and dramatically cradling her head in her hands.
"'e's hungry," Olivia said disapprovingly to Annabelle as Rose hugged the baby close and left the room. She'd leave Olivia to do the chastising. The noise level would only increase if she stayed in the kitchen with a protesting infant.
As the two women began to shout at each other, Rose closed the door leading from the kitchen and crossed the living room to the window. Looking out, she could see Sherlock had already arrived and was sitting in the car parked at the kerb in front of the house tapping away on his phone. Rose gently rubbed Jack's back, bringing his cries into submission.
She left the house with Jack nestled contentedly in the crook of her neck. Kissing the top of his head, she whispered, "I wish I could take you with me."
"And who do we have here?" Sherlock asked as he joined Rose on the pavement.
"This is Jack."
Sherlock stooped a little to examine the baby boy in Rose's embrace.
"Hello, little man," he said gently.
Jack eyed Sherlock curiously for a second, then turned his head away and whimpered.
"He's over-tired and hungry," Rose said, rubbing the infant's back once more.
"So…" Sherlock began hesitantly as he straightened up. "Is… he... all you're bringing home today?"
"I wish," she replied, sighing deeply. "Nope, the baby stays. My things are upstairs. Come in."
Rose led Sherlock inside, where they bypassed the kitchen and made for the stairs.
"I'd introduce you, but…"
Rose let the shouting speak for itself. Sherlock smiled grimly. They ascended the two flights of stairs up to Rose's tiny bedroom. She pointed out the boxes and suitcases she needed taken to the car. Sherlock took the heaviest box first, and Rose trailed behind him. She had to keep moving anyway. Baby Jack would fidget unhappily if she stopped for a second.
With the back of the car loaded up with Rose's things, Sherlock joined her in the living room just as Olivia entered with a bottle of formula.
"Oh, Olivia, this is Scott," Rose said.
Sherlock smiled warmly at Olivia and extended his hand.
"Lovely to meet you at last," he said to Olivia.
Rose stifled a laugh. What the hell was that accent? Was Scott Williams from Northern Ireland now?
But she noted that Olivia greeted Sherlock just as politely. This meant she was highly suspicious of Scott Williams. The ex-social worker once told Rose she would be open and friendly to anyone she met initially, so people would lower their guard and she could get to know the real person behind the mask.
Well, meet Sherlock Holmes, Rose thought. Olivia would never penetrate his façade.
But Olivia had her suspicions about what type of man Scott Williams was. As a result of her line of work, Rose's landlady had a very tainted view of the male species. Rose had shown up this morning looking tired and puffy-eyed, and yes, she had been crying the night before, but her tiredness was due in part to her and Sherlock not being able to keep their hands off each other for very long.
She hadn't wanted to endure another session of crying, but as they had lain contentedly together in the early hours, Sherlock had again asked her what had happened to make her estranged from her family. So she finally told him.
Five weeks ago
There were squeals of delight. What had started as Uncle Denis's sixtieth birthday celebrations had ended with his eldest daughter Fleur, who lived in Abu Dhabi, announcing her engagement during a Skype birthday message. It was pre-recorded because of the time difference. It was to be her second marriage, so although everyone gathered around for a champagne toast, tongues still clucked and the gossip-mongers among them still recalled the dramas that had surrounded Fleur's first marriage.
Rose, tired and a bit emotional herself due to not hearing anything from Sherlock for the past week, had safely stayed out of the spotlight. That is, until Malcolm's girlfriend Jessie pointed out that "Rosemarie didnae get a glass of champagne." Rose was trying to discreetly raise her glass of water during the toast to the happy but absent couple.
"Wa's wrong with ye?" asked Mal. "Ye didnae drink anything all night, or come outside with us tae-" Jessie elbowed her boyfriend before he spilled the beans on their regular toking sessions on nights like these—one that Rose neglected to join this time round. "Are ye pregnant or summin'?"
Everything would've be fine had Rose immediately smiled and laughed along with everyone else. But her hesitance spoke volumes. There was a collective gasp from the older set, before Jessie—who was completely blootert—lunged at Rose, offering her drunken congratulations.
"Christ, you're a dark horse!" exclaimed Malcolm.
There were murmurings from the seniors and laughter mostly from the younger set, but through the crowd Rose spied her mother hasten out of the room, followed closely by her father. Rose's cheeks were deeply flushed by now as her cousins and their partners and friends crowded around her.
"Fuck me… ye don't look…"
"How pregnant are ye?"
"So, who's the fa—"
"Shh!"
"Excuse me," Rose said, feeling the walls pressing in on her. It was too much too soon—being confronted with this just a week after she had told Sherlock the news and had pushed him out of her life. And now her parents were upset with her again.
She found her mum and dad in the tiny drawing room of her uncle and aunt's house, just off the entranceway. Her dad was consoling her mother as she sat in a Chintz armchair.
"I'm sorry you found out like this," Rose began. She forced a smile to her face. "I actually wanted to wait until I was twelve weeks, you know, with the first trimester being—"
Mr Sulford straightened up as his wife said, "You have a nerve! Ruining Uncle Denis's sixtieth like this!"
"What? I didn't—"
"Why are you like this? What did we ever do to deserve—"
"Like what?" Rose's chest grew tight. This wasn't a new argument. Every time something happened in her life and she had sought support from her parents, they were often perplexed as to how she had "turned out this way."
"I'm nine weeks pregnant," Rose continued. "I haven't joined a cult or a terrorist organisation. Why are you so upset? It's not as if I'm fifteen years old. I'm an adult."
"It's not enough you're ruining your own life," her mother spluttered. "You had to ruin his as well."
"Who? Uncle Denis?"
"Adrian!"
"A—?"
"He was supposed to marry Erin!" her mother said, now visibly trembling where she sat. "And then you came along—"
"Wait. Hold on. For fuck's sake—"
Her father straightened up, stiff as a board.
"Don't you swear at your mother."
"Ade's not the father," Rose said, her eyes never leaving her mother's face. "We never had sex."
"Oh!" Mrs Sulford put her hand to her chest as if Rose had just described the sex act itself.
"This happened in London, before I even came here."
Rose's statement caused the blood to drain from her mother's face and her dad emitted an angry scoff. What now?
"What?" she asked fiercely. "Will you just stop being disappointed with me and tell me what the hell's upsetting you so much?"
"How dare you stand there and make demands of us," her mother said in a strangled voice.
"Well, don't sit there and judge me."
Her mother looked away as if in disgust. Rose's eyes locked on her father's. Since he could barely look at her or speak to her these days, it seemed to be with conscious effort that he didn't look away as well.
"Dad," Rose said softly, the title almost sounding odd to her ears. "Why don't you talk to me anymore?"
"Don't upset your father!" her mother snapped.
"Let him answer! If he's upset—"
"You're a prostitute," her dad said, his voice crackling at the end.
His words hung in the air giving the room an eerie quality. Rose's head began to buzz in the silence. The words had sounded wrong coming from his mouth. Both her parents now looked at her with sorrow prominent in their eyes. Rose's throat tightened and her mouth ran dry.
"How…" she began, forcing the word out.
"Jimmy," her dad said.
"Such a nice boy," Mrs Sulford added. "You broke his heart."
Jimmy, Rose thought. Jimmy Dodd. Corporal James Dodd. Her boyfriend once upon a time. And how did he know? Rose thought he had only heard she worked at the Rendezvous strip club. And she had set him straight about her being a cloakroom attendant and not a stripper.
"I don't…" Rose said, tears welling in her eyes. I don't do that anymore. She was beginning to sound like a broken and pointless record. Her skin was prickling. This was the worst of all her nightmares—people in her ordinary life knowing about her darkest secret. But she wasn't a prostitute. She no longer worked in the sex industry. Couldn't she ever rid herself of the label?
Mr Sulford finally looked away from her, his shoulders drooping as if a heavy burden had descended on him. Perhaps he had suffered further disappointment by Rose not denying the accusation outright.
Rose's mother, by contrast, continued gazing at her daughter with a look of defiance, her chin tilting upwards, as if she was somehow vindicated by the truth coming out at last.
"And you never thought to ask me about it?" Rose asked in a small voice. Her heart felt like paper.
"What?" her mother asked incredulously. "Over a cup of tea?"
"Yes!" Rose snapped. "A cup of tea! It would've been nice to have been asked directly, instead of being gossiped about behind my back. I had my reasons, if you ever cared to ask."
"And have you been carrying on while you've been here?" Mrs Sulford asked, a pained look on her face.
"Carrying on?"
"Having…" Mrs Sulford swallowed her ugly thought. "Sexual intercourse… for money."
Rose's dad's gaze was rooted to the floor, as if he wanted to sink through it rather than listen to this conversation.
"I'm not a... I haven't... worked in the industry for quite some time now."
"Industry," Mrs Sulford scoffed. "Obviously not now, not since…" She flung her hand out and waved it at Rose.
Rose's hand reflexively stole to her abdomen.
"For quite some time," she reiterated. "My pregnancy has nothing to do with that. I had a boyfriend. In London."
"A boyfriend," her mother repeated incredulously. "How can you have a boyfriend? You can't manage to keep anyone around long enough to call them a boyfriend. You can't keep a job—"
"He's—"
"And you're not keeping it are you?"
Rose gaped. Her mother's vicious tone initially threw her. But what an awful question. The idea of not going through with her pregnancy had never crossed her mind. Her baby? Sherlock's baby?
"This is your grandchild you're talking a—"
"Don't you dare!" her mother said vehemently, her nostrils flaring. "That… that thing you're carrying around—after some man paid to... That is not my—"
"How can you say that!"
"It's easy when we no longer think of you as our daughter!"
The words hit Rose like a slap in the face and she recoiled. Her father straightened up as if that was his cue. His eyes finally met Rose's and he reached out and placed a supportive hand on his wife's shoulder.
Rose turned and fled from the room. She felt, rather than saw, the loose gathering of relatives at the end of the entranceway, possibly having heard the drama unfold. She wrenched open the front door and escaped into the chilly and damp night air.
The rest of the weekend was a blur. Obviously, up and down the street her relatives spoke together in hushed tones behind closed doors, rallying around the unfortunate Sulfords, and what to do about their wayward daughter.
Pippa came to Rose late on Sunday night, her face apologetic, and her demeanour slightly cautious, as if Rose could turn rabid in the next second.
"I'm sorry, love," she said. Rose barely heard the rest of her prepared speech.
Pippa's parents owned the house, and… well, they couldn't possibly let her stay, now. How would it look?
"With strange men turning up at all hours?" Rose queried. She couldn't help herself. She was exhausted and fed up with this narrow-minded, small town mentality.
The next morning, after packing all night, Rose asked if Pippa's husband Luke could drive her and her belongings to a friend's place. Pippa had hastily replied that Luke was busy.
"I just saw him in the garden a second ago, picking flowers with Aaron and Mia."
"Well, now he's busy. Perhaps you'd like to call a cab?"
Rose had heard Pippa calling her family inside, in an urgent, frantic voice earlier. Did she think Rosemarie, the harlot from London, was going to infect her family with her debaucherous ways?
Rose rang the only other person she knew who had a suitable vehicle at their disposal and who might have the heart to help her.
Adrian appeared within ten minutes of her call. Rose heard the sound of raised voices coming from the main house before the adjoining door burst open. Adrian breezed through, flicking the door shut behind him, shutting off Pippa's protests. He would've heard all the gossip by now. He hadn't been present at Uncle Denis's birthday party, but surely tongues had been wagging up and down Craigleith Hill Gardens.
"Fucking hell," he said, beaming widely. "They say you're a prostitute now," he added casually, as if he'd just heard that Rose was a shop assistant.
"Was," she replied.
"I thought you were a stripper," he said, bending down to pick up a box containing Rose's books.
"I'm multi-talented," she replied humourlessly.
"Well… you know what I think…"
"I really don't want to know, Ade."
"Could you unlock the side gate for us? Pippa's in a right fucking mood. I don't want to go through the house again."
Rose preceded Ade outside and up the path beside the house. She unlocked the side access gate, and propped it open using a brick from the garden. She went back inside to retrieve some of her smaller possessions and began loading them into the back of Ade's pickup truck.
"Is that it?" Ade asked a few minutes later, as Rose quickly scanned the living area of the basement flat she'd been calling home over the last two months.
"I travel light these days," she replied with a sigh. It was true. Each time she had moved in the past year, she'd offloaded more and more of her possessions.
After locking the back door to the basement and the side gate, Rose held out her keys to Adrian.
"Could you give these to Pippa for me?"
Rose waited by the car, while Ade stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by Mia, who was pushed aside by her six-year-old brother. Mia called after him in protest, and they both arrived, breathless, and jostling for position, in front of Rose. Both Mia and Aaron were clutching flowers and a good variety of weeds from the garden—so enthusiastically plucked they still sported their roots and a great deal of garden soil. The children thrust their floral arrangements towards Rose as an embarrassed Luke came up behind them.
"Oi, wait," he said, reaching out and flicking the soil from the bottom of the plants.
Rose's eyes were burning with tears and she dared not blink.
"Why'd ye 'ave-tae go?" Mia asked.
"Oh… I've got friends to visit," Rose said, forcing a smile to her face. She accepted the flowers graciously and bent down to kiss each child on the top of their head.
Aaron immediately sprinted back inside the house, while Mia said mournfully, "Goodbye, Rosemarie. I love ye," before she, too, took off inside. Luke raised a hand in a half wave and gave Rose an embarrassed smile. He turned to the house, almost colliding with Adrian. He gave Ade a playful whack on the arm and continued up to the door. Pippa stood in the doorway, her arms folded in front of her. She gave her husband a tight smile before they both disappeared inside.
"It's all sorted," Ade said, gesturing toward his truck. He opened the cab door for Rose and added, "Don't ye worry about those cunts. They'll come round."
Rose gave Ade the address to Indira's place—a two bedroom flat in Newington. She stared out of the window during the drive, and attempted to suppress her tears. Tears of rage or sorrow—she wasn't sure. Adrian was uncharacteristically silent.
Once they'd pulled up outside Indira's flat, Rose was greeted by her uni friend. She thanked Indira profusely for letting her stay for a few days on such short notice until she'd got herself sorted. After they'd piled Rose's belongings in the narrow entranceway, Indira offered tea. Adrian declined, saying he had to get back to work.
Rose joined him on the kerb in front of his truck so she could say goodbye.
"Thanks so much—" she began.
"Is it mine?"
Rose wasn't sure she heard him correctly. Ade had his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, and he shifted restlessly.
"Sorry, what?"
"Is it… mine." He nodded his head toward Rose, his eyes dropping to her stomach.
Rose opened her mouth to reply, but was still momentarily thrown by the question. Ade was studying her, a flicker of panic crossing his face when she failed to answer immediately.
"Why would you… how on earth… for Christ's sake, Ade. How is that even possible? When did—"
"Christmas Day," he said, his tone almost apologetic. "Night," he added, with a slight shake of his head to correct himself.
"What?"
"Well, I don't remember, I was… so drunk."
"If you were drunk, then how…" Rose stopped, for it had just dawned on her the source of all the gossip. "Did… did you tell everybody we had sex on Christmas night?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly?"
"Well, I didn't exactly deny it."
"Why not!"
Ade took a tiny step backwards.
"Because I didn't remember. I must've passed out."
"Yes, you did, Ade! You passed out!" Rose's cheeks began to burn, but she took in a calming breath before she continued. She didn't want to cause a scene in the middle of the street. "I went inside," she said. "To bed. Alone. I didn't know you were going to sleep there all night."
"So, we didn't—"
"No! Not even close!"
"Oh, thank the Lord!" Ade said, bowing his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "I was wondering how we managed it in a swing chair." He looked up and gave Rose a sheepish smile.
Rose couldn't believe him. Her whole life had gone to shit and Adrian was standing there making jokes. But as conflicting emotions jostled for dominance, she knew this wasn't entirely his fault. Her reputation had already preceded her, apparently, before she'd ever set foot in Edinburgh.
"I've got to go," she said, taking a step towards the flat. "Thanks, again."
"Will you keep in touch?"
"No."
"Oh," he said, smiling weakly. "You're still angry with me about the stripper thing."
"A bit."
Rose sighed deeply as Adrian moved towards her. She looked up and down the street then hugged her body as a chilly wind whipped around them.
"What you don't understand," she began, "is that I worked in that industry ages ago. It was probably the lowest point in my life. Except for now." She gave Ade a wan smile. "This comes pretty close."
When he made a move towards her, Rose held up her hand.
"Don't, Ade." He stopped, suddenly unsure of himself. "It was the worst time in my life. I degraded and humiliated myself… for money." She watched as a flush crept across Adrian's cheeks. But his discomfort was the least of her concerns. "So the next time you and your mates think it's cool that you know a prostitute and want to have a bit of fun… think about me and my life. My actual life. Because it wasn't fun, Ade."
Rose's breath caught in her throat. Before she could give in to her emotions, she turned for the flat and left Adrian alone on the pavement.
Rose's silence caused Sherlock to panic a little. He cleared his throat and thought to add, "If that's all right."
He'd just told her that technically she owned the house. Her name was on the title, after all. During the tour of their newly-purchased home in Morningside, they hadn't made it any further than the entrance hall. Rose stood still, looking slightly pale. Sherlock thought he'd made a huge mistake. But then she blinked and her eyes were immediately swimming with tears. She valiantly wiped them away and Sherlock was relieved to see a smile forming on her lips. She reached for him and sighed against his chest when he enveloped her in his embrace.
"I've never owned anything bigger than a… microwave oven," she said. She drew away, looking around again and taking in the view of the foyer. There wasn't much to see, Sherlock thought. The place was completely void of furniture.
Almost completely.
Rose tilted her head and examined the ornate cornicing around the high ceiling before her gaze rested on the brilliant white staircase winding upwards with its emerald green carpeting.
"Well, you're going to have to buy another microwave oven, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. "I asked them to remove all of the existing appliances and white goods."
"Why?"
"Because they were hideously outdated—five years old apparently."
"Just... five years?" Rose said faintly.
"Yes, they'd remodelled the kitchen, or… something." Sherlock waved a flippant hand toward the door leading to the kitchen. He was already bored with the subject matter. "Anyway… the kitchen's through here isn't it?"
He remembered the layout from the floor plan he'd been sent by the estate agent. This was the first time either of them had set foot inside the house. It didn't look as bright and airy as the photos showed, but it was still more spacious than any place Rose had ever lived in, Sherlock surmised. He had declined a viewing prior to the purchase, opting to throw huge sums of money at the seller, above and beyond what they had asked for so they could clear all their stuff out and let the Williams Estate have the place that very weekend, no questions asked. Sherlock had correctly deduced the exact sum of money that would elicit such a positive response from the seller.
There was a hasty exchange of contract, and an even hastier removal of the hired furniture that had been provided purely for marketing purposes. Fortunately, the seller wasn't actually living in the house at the time.
When they entered the kitchen, Sherlock was relieved to see the replacement appliances had been installed—organised by a newly-appointed interior decorating company, who had the responsibility for purchasing and arranging their installation. All except a microwave oven. He'd forgotten about that one. But if they'd managed to do that, then this was a good sign for what Rose may find in two of the other rooms he had deemed necessary to hold furniture.
Sherlock cleared his throat and waited for Rose's reaction. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Perhaps he should go around buying houses for people he cared about more often. It gave him a warm feeling of satisfaction. Money and possession were such odd things for ordinary people.
"Wow," was all she said, her words carried on her exhale.
Rose strode across the room towards the bay window. Sherlock knew she was struggling not to cry.
"This is where the dining table would go," she said, indicating the large, empty space in front of the window. "I saw it in the photos. But look…"
Sherlock joined her at the window, where Rose threaded her fingers into his.
She gave a satisfied sigh, and said, "It needs a bit of work." Sherlock hummed agreeably and made a mental note to hire a gardener. "Did you like being out in the garden when you were a child?" Rose asked, as they looked through the window at the scraggly garden outside, consisting of half-pruned shrubs and uneven stone paths.
Sherlock thought for a moment.
"Yes… and no."
His own internal conflict regarding his childhood and outdoor adventure games came to the fore. The conflicting emotions had always puzzled him. He often assumed it was about losing Redbeard, his pet dog. His family had to get him put down for reasons unknown. But then the murky waters would ripple over his memories, and he was left with nothing but a feeling of unease.
Rose turned to him, her eyes glistening once more.
"I can't believe this, Sherlock," she said in a small voice. "You organised this so quickly."
Sherlock gave her a half-smile in return. What was the point in delaying these things? He wanted Rose to be safe and settled in one place—a place of her own—and not feeling as if she was waiting to begin their life together while living out of a suitcase. He knew she was putting on a brave front about him returning to London tomorrow, but she had encouraged him to go, saying he needed to be Sherlock Holmes in London now and again. Lestrade did sound a bit desperate on the phone that morning.
"I'm sure Harold Blessington is the culprit," Sherlock had reassured Rose after he told her he was needed by the Scotland Yard D.I. "He poisoned his wife and her lover. The signs are all there. I'll have this solved within a day and be back before you know it."
"There's no rush. You know how busy I get with studying. Just don't lose track of time. I'm due in September, don't forget."
"I'll be back well before that."
"And I'm having a scan in about a month, if you wanted to—"
"Well before that, too."
So while Rose was at university that Friday afternoon, after her morning cleaning job, Sherlock had organised the house and the furnishings in a matter of hours. That they were able to take possession of the property and move in on the weekend took Rose by surprise. Why do other people prolong these things?
As he looked down at her now, he still harboured a deep regret for not returning to Edinburgh soon enough. His presence may have prevented her falling out with her family or reduced the enormous toll the emotional upheaval had placed on her.
"I just want you to be happy," he said.
Rose's face softened and she reached up and caressed Sherlock's cheek.
"You make me happy," she replied, her eyes searching his. "It's not the house, or the financial support or a new microwave oven—it's you. And it's taken me far too long to realise that."
Sherlock's throat constricted a little, and he endeavoured to clear it.
"Yes… well, you haven't seen the rest of the house yet," he quipped, desperate not to turn this into another moment where Rose got all serious and teary.
He gave her a broad smile and was relieved to hear her light chuckle. Grabbing her by the hand, Sherlock led Rose into the adjoining room—the drawing room. Rose's delicate gasp was all he needed to hear.
.
Author's Note:
Apologies for not getting to the cuddly bits this time round. It'll be first up next chapter, I promise! I just wanted to provide a context for Rose's grief, and contrast her past living situations with the home she can now share with Sherlock.
Thanks for all your wonderful feedback for the last chapter. I love that many of you enjoy reading a domesticated Sherlock as much as I enjoy writing about him! I loved reading your comments! So please don't hesitate to review or PM. Unlike Sherlock, I don't delete any message that begins with 'Hi!' :D
