Author's Note:
I forgot to add in the last chapter's author note: if you didn't receive the deleted scene from me after writing a review for chapter 79, it may be because you have the PM facility turned off and I couldn't message you. Let me know if that's the case and you would still like to receive it (you'll have to change your account settings for "Accept private messages" to "Yes.").
After the last few chapters, I felt the need for this kind of chapter...
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Chapter 81 – Just Like Old Times
Like Cluedo without the prompt cards, she had said.
Okay, then. Sherlock was up for anything—almost anything—but he hastily changed his mind about buying houses for those he cared about if there was a requirement to "christen every room" as Rose had informed him. Could get awkward.
At first, he was confused.
"What do you mean, we have to christen every room? Give it a name and allocate Godparents?"
When Rose had finished laughing, she explained.
Cluedo without the prompt cards meant… Oh! And there wasn't any stress about who did what to whom and with which weapon. Only the location would be specified. That meant he could improvise!
"So…" Sherlock began, reaching for another chip. "Is there a time-frame involved? Because we have a lot of square meterage to cover."
Rose swallowed her own mouthful and chuckled lightly. They were sitting outside on the second floor balcony. There were no chairs, so they sat on the ground, leaning up against the glass sliding door that led to the empty top floor room inside. To their right, the sun had dipped behind the buildings along their street, giving the sky an apricot glow.
"How about we only use the rooms that are furnished?" Rose said. "The kitchen, the drawing room and the bedroom; so that's only three times in one night. Are you up for that?"
"Well, technically the bathroom is fully functional—"
"But we'll only use that for foreplay, on our way to the bedroom…"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, but Rose was way ahead of him.
"The bathroom floor's tiled," she said. "And the landing, or whatever you call that space outside our bedroom, and I checked… it's floorboards. There's floorboards in the bedroom, except for that rug your interior decorating friends put there, so we'll roll it up or something. Minimal water damage going from the bathroom to the bedroom. And the owner doesn't mind a few drops of water on the bedsheets."
She smiled triumphantly and plucked another chip from the takeaway container that sat in Sherlock's lap.
Sherlock pretended to be considering their options, when he was really luxuriating in the feeling that all was right with the world. In his world, anyway. The leg pressed against Rose's was already feeling warmed. He placed the almost empty chip container on the other side of him and was thinking about suggesting they head inside.
When Rose's hand stole across his lap, he was jolted out of his reverie.
"Christ!"
Rose chuckled, her face bright with mischief. It wasn't a chip she was after. She drew him to her and her mouth was suddenly on his. Her kiss was instantly hot, her intention and desperation quite clear. Sherlock happily succumbed until her hand began working in earnest through the fabric of his jeans.
"No… wait," he said, his voice fraying at the edges. "The balcony wasn't part of the—"
"The balcony's fully functional," Rose whispered, attempting to narrow the gap between them once more.
Sherlock made a statement of moving her hand from his lap before it could misbehave again.
"No. It doesn't have any chairs. I need at least one chair and—"
"A table?"
"An ashtray."
"Fine," Rose said in a semi-huff before rising and smoothing out her clothing. "I'll meet you in the kitchen."
She left him to inhale deeply and enable blood to flow to his brain once more, for it had become pooled elsewhere. Sherlock claimed the last chip, then grabbed the empty takeaway container. He headed downstairs to find Rose.
She wasn't waiting for him in the kitchen, as it turned out. He deposited the rubbish and was just washing his hands in the kitchen sink when Rose entered. She had changed into her dressing gown and had brought the quilt from their bed.
"What's… that for?" Sherlock asked dubiously.
"The counter's too hard and cold," she said before plopping the bedcover onto the smooth granite surface and spreading it out a little.
"This is sounding less spontaneous by the second."
"Who said it has to be spontaneous?"
"Well… it doesn't seem… authentic."
Rose laughed once more, then turned around and hoisted herself onto the island counter. She rearranged herself, ensuring her dressing gown was held closed with a certain degree of decorum, although Sherlock did catch a glimpse of a lacy bra and matching knickers. She hadn't been wearing that combination earlier.
Their previous conversation on the balcony, Rose's initial kiss and fondle, combined with images of the last time they played Cluedo, all swirled around Sherlock's conscious mind and set him on a course of action. He tossed the tea towel over his shoulder—not caring if it landed in the sink or not—before he made his approach.
As Rose leant back on one arm, she reminded him of an oil painting by one of the old masters.
Perhaps all of the old masters. Or a young master? Can you have young masters? Sherlock couldn't remember. Boring detail anyway.
He stopped short at the end of the counter and reached for Rose. He yanked her towards him, causing her to yelp and giggle in surprise. Sliding a hand inside her gown, he was able to part it, exposing her cleavage—visual stimulation—before bringing his mouth to hers. She hummed in delight, her hands reaching up to curl into his hair. Rose's enthusiasm matched his. She pulled him close, wrapping her legs around him.
With a deft flick of his fingers, Sherlock had unclasped Rose's bra. She relinquished her hold on him to finish undressing, then she attempted to pull his t-shirt out of his jeans. Stepping back momentarily, he tugged the shirt over his head before dropping it to the floor. Sherlock shivered a little. The kitchen wasn't heated at the moment.
Back within Rose's grasp, he allowed her to unzip him, but then he had another idea.
"Lie back," he bid her. He gently helped Rose lie down and make herself comfortable on the quilt.
He moved from the end of the counter to the side, sliding a warming hand the length of Rose's body. Tiny gasps of pleasure escaped her lips when Sherlock bent his head and skimmed his lips over the soft skin of her neck. His hand continued caressing her, but he could feel her impatience. Beneath his lips, the pulse in her throat quickened. He slid his hand lower, finally dipping into her knickers and eliciting a desperate moan from her.
She tried to reach for him as he sought her breast with his mouth and flicked his tongue over her nipple. Her cold hands brushed the exposed skin on his hip and he recoiled.
"Not yet," he said. He wanted to bring her to the edge, arouse her beyond measure and draw out her orgasm so the wait was worth it. He didn't want any attention directed towards himself at the moment, but... Christ! Why were her hands so cold?
With a disappointed sigh, Rose dropped her hand to the counter. Sherlock paused as the temperature of the room pressed in on him. Was it Rose's exhale that caused her body to still momentarily? Sherlock withdrew his hand, his brow furrowed.
Turning her head towards him, Rose asked, "What?"
The flesh, her flesh, so pale and cold and…
"What?" she asked again.
And the counter. The kitchen counter. Kitchen counters are designed at a standard height of thirty-six inches. While the height of a post-mortem examination table is adjustable, the ones I've—
"Sherlock?"
Post-mortems. Dead bodies.
An accelerated montage of all the bodies of the deceased he had ever seen or examined in Bart's mortuary flashed before his eyes. All naked. Some female.
"Um… no," he said, taking a step back.
"What's the matter?"
"This…" He waved a hand at the kitchen counter. "It's all wrong."
Rose moved to a semi-sitting position. Sherlock seized his chance to scoop her up from the counter and lower her to the floor. She stood, shivering, her face awash with concern.
"Ah… the room's not fully functional," he said, gesturing toward the empty space where the dining table ought to have sat. "And this… the height… It's… too high. I prefer the table."
"But, you—"
He grabbed the quilt from the counter and swept from the room.
The welcoming warmth of the drawing room fire embraced him. Sherlock was glad he had thought to light it earlier. Rose clicked the door shut behind them and followed him to the occasional chairs that sat in front of the fireplace. She sighed in satisfaction and rubbed her arms.
"Why didn't we start here? It's so much warmer."
"I've no idea."
Relief drizzled through him as he spread the quilt over the rug upon which the chairs sat. Rose wasn't angry or upset that he'd brought their antics to an abrupt halt. Clearly she was only too familiar with his oddities. Perhaps she even liked that about him.
As he straightened up, Rose approached him. She smiled affectionately and drew her arms around his neck.
"Start again?" she whispered.
Sherlock hummed agreeably, internally tutting at whatever had happened just then to transport him to Bart's mortuary. He bowed his head when Rose stood on her toes, and their mouths met again in a soft, tender kiss. He found it so arousing to have Rose pressed up against him when she was almost completely naked, and he was shirtless. He savoured her taste, feeling the warmth and the need rising from her.
He wanted to go slowly, even though they had an agenda. This night was going to end eventually, and the morning would bring with it a commute back to London and a life away from Rose.
They progressed to the quilt and repositioned themselves after Sherlock had removed his jeans. He was keen to return Rose to the state in which he'd left her in the kitchen. With patience and concentration, he navigated every curve of her body until she moaned in pleasure. He felt his stomach yearn, but kept himself in check. As he traced a line along her thigh, she arched, her breath ending on his name.
Sherlock's own body throbbed and ached, but he kept to his task, his tongue replacing his hands. Rose's breath was thick and unsteady until it caught and released in a rush. He knew he had her. Her hands dived into his hair, urging him on. Sherlock indulged himself in the feel and the taste of her with the sound of her pleasure music to his ears. He gripped her hips, feeling the orgasm rip though her.
Sherlock surveyed all that he had done, and a low laugh rumbled through him. He brought himself up and curled around Rose, his own body tingling with fresh but unmet arousal.
"Here…" Rose said faintly, turning to face him.
"No, not yet. Just enjoy the moment," Sherlock replied.
He held her tightly, feeling the tension leave her body. It was an entirely satisfying feeling, experiencing her complete and utter surrender from start to finish, and not have his own climax draining all coherent thought from his mind.
But it wasn't long before Rose stirred once more.
"Come on," she said, rubbing his arm. "Let's have a bath."
They had an interlude of sorts, practicalities having to win over any further passionate encounters. Sherlock found it extremely difficult to be at all helpful—his persistent erection directed his train of thought to only one possible destination.
"I'm sure they're here somewhere," Rose said, rifling through a box in search of her bathroom supplies. It didn't help that she had remained naked throughout the entire search. Not that he was any more modest, but at least he was clad in boxer trunks.
"Oh, that's right," Rose said sheepishly. "I put them in my bag so they'd be easy to find."
Sherlock tutted. He could've deduced their whereabouts if Rose hadn't initially said she was sure she remembered putting them in the top of a box. An unreliable witness. It didn't matter. The bathtub was taking an age to fill anyway.
Rose drifted into the bathroom with her shampoo, conditioner and soap, calling back to Sherlock to bring the towels. He had to search through another box for those. By the time he entered the bathroom, Rose had arranged her supplies on the floor beside the tub and was dipping her toe in the water to test it. Sherlock tutted. Did people really do that?
And then he shivered again. Christ! Why did Rose keep suggesting places to get their kit off when the temperatures were below freezing? At least Sherlock had the sense to check that the bedroom heater was on and functioning.
Sherlock looked toward the ceiling. Rose had only turned on the overhead light and not the heating lamps. He reached for the switches by the door and toggled a couple. One was the extractor fan, and the other…
Ah…
He tutted. One of the dual heating lamps wasn't working. Rose stood in front of Sherlock, arranging her hair into a temporary bun. She followed his gaze.
"No, Sherlock."
"No, what?"
"You're not fixing that now."
Rose climbed into the bath, emitting a satisfied sigh as she did so.
"I'm leaving in the morning," Sherlock began. He toggled the switch once more for good measure. "I'm not leaving you here with a half-functioning heat lamp."
"I'm perfectly capable of changing a lightbulb."
"It's not just any bulb."
"I'm perfectly capable of changing any kind of bulb. Now get in. If you want warmth, this is where it is."
Sherlock tutted once more. Rose had moved to the centre of the tub, hugging her knees as she usually did. She busied herself cleaning or whatever. It was her way of avoiding looking at his erection as he slid off his underwear. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A way of reducing Sherlock's embarrassment. That was something she did for him, because she cared.
Still, he removed his underwear quickly and silently, then slid into the bathtub behind Rose. She didn't lean back into him as she usually did. Instead, she stood up and turned around. Sherlock knew what that meant. He straightened his legs, allowing Rose to sit astride him, facing him. It meant she was already getting to the business end of their bathing routine, which usually commenced with Sherlock massaging Rose, while working up a lather and her arousal simultaneously. Clearly, she'd deemed that step unnecessary this time round. Sherlock had already dealt with her needs in the drawing room.
Rose had his soap—not hers—in her hand. His was more suitable for sensitive skin, while hers irritated it. He liked the scent of coconut on her skin, but he couldn't abide it on his own.
Rose lathered the soap while Sherlock tilted his head back. He had learnt long ago that he was required to relax during this bit. Rose had instructed him to.
Lathered chest, neck and arms, he thought, taking stock several minutes later. Yes, yes, all very well, but…
Oh, Christ, Rose!
A low moan escaped Sherlock's lips. He didn't mind this involuntary utterance now. It was always good to let Rose know she was doing a superb job. She had a firm grip; she had settled into a good rhythm. Lots of soap required. Water was the enemy here. It washed away the lather—the lubricant. Even foreplay wasn't a complete affair in the bathtub. Sherlock knew this. He had made a list of all the reasons why sex in the bath wasn't a good idea. But still Rose persisted.
His body tingled all over. He was shifting into that phase of mindless… mindless something. But suddenly Rose was up on her knees.
"No, Rose," he said, struggling to form coherent words. "No—"
"—sex in the bath," she finished with him. "I know. I just wanted to kiss you."
She bent low, maintaining a gap between their bodies so her hand could continue its deft work. Her mouth was warm, yet demanding. She'd become aroused herself, Sherlock concluded. And why wouldn't she? He knew how much it thrilled him whenever he witnessed Rose's undoing by his own hand. She was experiencing the same watching him.
Sherlock clutched her body, his tongue entwining with hers. His desire quickening, he suddenly wanted to reach that final peak; he needed all of her. He pulled her towards him, craving more, but Rose must've had the same idea, because now…
Dammit. Now they were having sex in the bath.
The sensation was thrilling, yet… annoying. Rose's mouth was hot on his, desperate hands clutched at his hair and he was absorbed in her coconut scent.
But, really…
"Rose," he said urgently, tearing away. "Stand up."
"What?" she asked breathlessly.
"Up. Get off. Stand up."
Her eyes were huge, but her brow arched in confusion. She must've thought he'd panicked about something again. Rose stood and backed away, giving Sherlock room to stand up. But it was far from over. He wanted to take her where they stood.
And all this, in a way, was what bound them together. His initial innocence and confusion with regard to sex. Her patient understanding. His growing hunger and awakening of his own sexual desires. Her encouragement. And now their appetites matched and were mostly in sync. But now and again Sherlock's unpredictable actions were open to interpretation, and he guessed this was one such occasion.
Wordlessly, Sherlock gathered Rose in his arms and pressed her against the tiled wall above the bathtub. To her credit, she was immediately on the same page. Slightly breathless, she clung to him. His mind became clouded as the heat of their passion was all-consuming. Rose's breath came in short bursts and she gripped him, urging him on.
Then he slipped, ever so slightly, but it was enough of a warning that they weren't exactly on stable ground. Rose gasped. She'd felt it. Sherlock was suddenly aware of her fragility. Her condition. Which must be protected at all costs.
He gently lowered her to the tub and gingerly stepped out. After dropping a towel to the now wet floor, he assisted Rose to climb out, too. But she reached for him again, pulling him towards some unknown destination, her eyes darkened by an unfulfilling encounter. The bedroom? Of course! But Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced that the bedroom was the most creative way to continue their endeavour. He pulled Rose back toward the wall outside the bathroom. He sensed her eagerness, knowing she wanted him to take her this way, even before she pulled him into her. His body was alive with the taste and touch of her. Every nerve was ignited.
This wasn't exactly a new position for them, but definitely one for happier times. Sherlock had been crashing on cocaine the last time he had Rose like this. He wasn't sure what his mental state had been back then, but he was feeling exhilarated right now.
Rose's fingers dug into Sherlock's shoulders and her shortened breath was expelled on exquisite gasps of pleasure. Sherlock knew she was teetering on the brink. He could feel his own blood pounding through his body. Rose moved with him, matching his pace, her hands growing more insistent. When her body shuddered, he could tell she was there. He relinquished control and let himself go, propelling them both to the edge and beyond.
Sherlock checked all the locks on the doors and windows downstairs. He put the fire guard back in front of the fire place, then returned to the kitchen where he had left the kettle to boil. When he rejoined Rose in the bedroom, he found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing her pyjamas, and combing through her wet hair with a text book open in front of her and several notebooks scattered in a rough semi-circle around her.
"I thought you'd got lost," she said, looking up briefly. She did a double-take upon noticing Sherlock carrying cups of tea and her face split into a broad, happy grin.
They sat in cozy silence together—Rose studying and Sherlock solving a case via email. It was the most interesting email case to come in today, but unfortunately, he barely rated it a four. Rose's phone beeped with a message, and Sherlock cast a sideways glance at her. She smiled before she began tapping away at a reply. He wondered to whom and about what she was texting.
Rose placed her phone back down onto her bedside table once she'd finished, then leant over and kissed Sherlock's cheek.
"Indira," she said.
"What?"
"Indira, my friend from uni," she replied. "I stayed with her for a few days while I was looking for accommodation." Rose closed her books and swivelled out of bed. "Remember?" she prompted, briefly looking back at Sherlock before she rose. "I told you."
Sherlock hummed in vague agreement, then watched as Rose cleared her study items from the bedcovers and piled them onto a chair by the window. Of course he remembered her recount about being ousted by her family. There was something else that had bothered him, but Rose was too upset at the time for him to question her about it. He cleared his throat. Now was the opportune time for him to find out more. Rose was extremely happy and content—the perfect antidote to probing into the darkest times in her life.
"I was telling her you were back in my life again," Rose said. She made her way over to the dressing table and picked up a hair tie.
"You told her I was back in your life?"
"Well, not you by name," she replied, gathering her hair up into a pony-tail. "Just you as the father of my baby. I said we were together again, and were going to make a go of it."
"A go of it?"
"Yes. You know…"
"No."
"A relationship."
"Oh," Sherlock replied, storing the phrase in his Mind Palace for later use. "Okay."
Rose gave Sherlock an affectionate smile before she crossed the room to the ensuite bathroom.
"I spent a bit of time crying on her shoulder about everything. She did say she always knew you were the one."
"The one what?"
Rose disappeared inside the bathroom, but left the door open.
"The one for me," she called back.
Sherlock drew in a patient breath and decided to google the phrase, rather than have Rose explain to him every term pertaining to relationships.
Satisfied with the explanation, he returned his phone to the bedside table. He still had a question to ask Rose, so he decided to join her in the bathroom. It would seem like an innocent enquiry if he posed it while they were brushing their teeth together. Much more casual, then. He concluded it was difficult to cry if you were brushing your teeth.
"So…" he began, reaching for his toothbrush. Rose was bent low over the sink, rinsing her mouth. "Who's Adrian, again? I've forgotten. Something about family, but not really."
Rose had her back to him as she turned to wipe her face on a hand towel.
"I did tell you," she said, sweeping past him and wearing a neutral expression. "He's Malcolm's best friend. Since they were kids."
"And Malcolm's your…"
"Cousin," she called back from the bedroom. Second cousin, actually."
Sherlock was left to brush his teeth nursing a dull ache in his chest. So Adrian wasn't family. That was sort of a relief, because it would've been a bit weird for her otherwise. But still. He wasn't family.
When he re-entered the bedroom, Sherlock gave a light cough. Rose had switched off the main bedroom light and was now reading a smaller book by the light of her bedside lamp.
"And why did he…" Sherlock continued, before turning back to switch off the bathroom light. "Why did he think he was the father?"
He rounded the bed not making eye contact with Rose. He tried to keep his movements relaxed and casual-looking, but he wasn't sure if his pantomime was a success. There was something about Christmas and swing-chairs and assumptions about sex that just didn't gel with him.
Sherlock heard an almost imperceptible sigh from Rose as he climbed into bed.
"He fancied me," she said, her eyes still on her page.
"And how does that bring about conception?"
Sherlock rearranged the pillows behind him. Pretty soon he was going to run out of things to casually attend to, and this would end up being quite an intense conversation—something he had been trying to avoid by instigating it in the bathroom.
Rose smoothed a hand across her page. Clearly it was a delicate subject to bring up, Sherlock deduced, and she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. He fervently hoped by now she was above telling lies to spare his feelings.
"He was so drunk he didn't remember if we did anything or not."
Sherlock knew this. Rose had already told him during her recount. But what he still didn't understand—
"And because everybody already knew I was either a stripper or a prostitute in London," she continued, "nobody questioned the fact that we could've had sex after meeting that day. My immoral behaviour was perfectly consistent with what they had already heard about me."
"I see," he said, his chest tightening as feelings of intense dislike for Rose's family and what they had put her through came to the fore once more.
Rose closed up her book and placed it on her bedside table. She flicked off her lamp, leaving the room bathed in the light from Sherlock's side of the bed. She sank under the covers. The pain in Sherlock's chest hadn't eased at all.
Rose had turned to her side and was facing him. Sherlock was about to turn off his lamp when Rose called his name in a voice barely above a whisper.
"Mm?"
"I kissed him."
At first, Sherlock didn't understand her remark. She was looking up at him, her eyes dark and round. He swallowed. How was he supposed to respond to this?
"On New Year's Eve," she added.
"Oh."
"I was drunk, and…"
"Rose. You don't need to—"
"And upset. But that's not really an excuse."
"We weren't… together," Sherlock hastily added. For whose benefit? His own? And how did this compare to him kissing Janine. But that was for a case. This was different. Wasn't it?
He reached over and switched off his lamp. Rose was silent. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He slid underneath the covers, and rolled to his side. Reaching out, he slid a comforting hand the length of Rose's arm. She shuffled into him.
"I pushed you away," he said to her. "What you did then… none of that matters."
"I loved you."
"I know."
"Even then. I don't know why…"
She trailed off, and Sherlock's eyes began to prickle. He didn't understand, even though he had implied he did. He had never thought someone else could replace Rose, even after she had left him. He knew she loved him at the time she said goodbye to him on Christmas Eve. Because they loved each other, he had decided to fight for them to be together some day. He felt an odd sense of bewilderment that Rose hadn't been of the same mindset—that she had kissed another man one week after leaving London.
He'd heard the phrase "I was drunk" to explain a myriad of unacceptable human behaviours. When he was in his early twenties, Mycroft asked if Sherlock had meant what he'd said when he'd been high on one occasion. Sherlock had said of course he did. What he didn't tell his brother was that he didn't remember what he told the insufferable git while high. But he was determined to take responsibility for his own utterances, high or not. Mycroft had seemed particularly upset, so Sherlock was sure whatever he'd said was probably appropriate for the occasion. At no time did he ever utter the words, "I was high; I didn't mean it."
Sherlock pressed his lips to Rose's forehead.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You don't have anything to apologise for."
A tiny sob escaped her making Sherlock's insides twist. He held her close, eventually rolling onto his back so Rose could curl into his chest. She gave one final sniff and then shuffled up to plant a kiss on his cheek.
Sherlock held her where she was, his mouth seeking hers. His lips parted when hers did, and he kissed her tenderly and patiently. There was no doubting Rose's love for him. He concluded her actions were as mysterious and inexplicable to him as any other she had made in the past that were beyond his level of comprehension.
After their kiss broke and Rose had settled back onto his chest, he tangled his fingers into her hair and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Despite all she had said, his heart felt buoyant. For the first time in a long while, there was a certainty about his future. Their future. And there was an excitement about the unknown: parenthood.
"I love you," he said, a rough edge to his voice.
Not immediately receiving a response from Rose, Sherlock thought she'd fallen asleep. He could almost see a tangible outline of the words themselves, floating in the air in the darkness. He stared at them for a few seconds, admiring the weight of them. Although they were his words, they would always be a gift from him to her. He hoped she would keep them and carry them in her heart in his absence.
"I'll never get tired of hearing you say that," Rose said, her voice thickened by emotion.
"And I'll never tire of saying it."
Silence pressed in on them once more, before Rose repositioned herself. Sherlock could feel the tiny fluttering of her breath on his neck.
"I love you, too," she replied sleepily.
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Author's Note:
I love writing from Sherlock's POV. I hope you enjoyed reading it! Next up: Sherlock back in London.
Review? Reviews are nice. They warm my heart :D Thank you!
