A/N: Apologies for the delay. Life, etc. Thanks for your patience. Also sorry for the false update yesterday. There is a server-wide problem. Notifications aren't getting sent to say new chapters are posted so I wasn't going to update until the problem was fixed. I tested it last night and because it wasn't fixed, I removed that new chapter. That's why the "date updated" had changed but there was no new chapter. Sorry! I've decided to update regardless, but I will repost this chapter when the problem is fixed to trigger an email notification. But those who Favourited my story probably noticed the Date Updated had changed and the story moved to the top of your list! So... here's the update! Sorry for the confusion.
The last chapter's Easter egg for my other story, The Mutual Suicide Pact, was the line, "Use his talents to cruise the nightclubs and pick up women by assuming a different identity." Kudos to those who spotted it. And I know it's not Easter anymore, but I inadvertently included a line that could serve as a tiny Easter egg for Doctor Who fans in this chapter :)
Chapter 83 – You Can't Go On Spinning Plates
With a weary sigh, Rose sank down onto a dining chair and slid her laptop towards her. Although, why bother? She wasn't in the right frame of mind to study now.
Dammit, Ade!
Rose left her seat and crossed the kitchen to flick the switch on the kettle once more. Her heart still beat furiously in her chest. Should she admonish Indira for giving Ade her address? He was harmless enough, though. Perhaps his visit was a good thing. Adrian could report back to her narrow-minded relatives on how Rosemarie was faring now. But Rose wasn't the kind of person to harbour resentment in such a way that would have her flaunt her good fortune. The thought of the estrangement between her and her father and the last few days of her mother's life just filled Rose with a bone-deep sorrow and regret for all the things that should've been said.
"Fucking hell. Would ye look at this place?" Adrian had said, craning his neck to see beyond Rose and into the foyer.
Once Rose had got over her initial shock at finding Ade on her doorstep, she thought the least she could do was offer him a cup of tea. He had come when she needed help to move out of Craigleith Hill Gardens. He had a kind heart, really. The only thing going against him was the simplicity with which he viewed the world and everybody in it.
But sitting down at a table and having a quiet cup of tea was not Adrian's usual style. Within seconds of entering the kitchen, he had examined the cabinetry and the bay window, tapping everything and making noises of approval, before saying, "Show us the rest of the house," and taking himself through the adjoining door into the living room. Rose abandoned her tea making and followed him in.
Ade methodically examined the fireplace and its mantel shelf, remarking with reverence that it was the original timber and it was still in good condition. And then he was off once more, out into the foyer, then taking the stairs two at a time. Rose wearily followed him.
Ade commented on the solidity of the staircase, the polish on the floorboards and again the ornate cornices. He was already across the landing when Rose was only halfway up the stairs.
"Whoa, that's solid, yeah?"
Rose rolled her eyes. Clearly Adrian was already in the bathroom and taking in the bathtub. And then a delicate flush crossed Rose's cheeks. Had she left her dirty clothes on the floor of the bathroom? She hadn't got round to buying a laundry hamper yet.
As she crossed the landing, Ade emerged from the bathroom opposite. With a curious saunter, he looked past Rose, glancing into her bedroom.
"So, where's this bloke of yours?" he asked, his mood slightly subdued. Rose concluded he'd seen the aftershave and second toothbrush on the shelf above the sink in the bathroom. "Indira said he was away a lot."
Rose explained in vague terms that Sherlock—Scott—was away on diplomatic duty.
"He's a diplomat?" Ade asked, wrinkling his nose a little.
"He's part of a security detail."
While Sherlock had come up with quite an elaborate cover story for himself—part of a security team for the British Embassy in South Korea—he warned Rose against revealing too much at any one time.
"Only lies have detail, Rose," Sherlock had said. And not for the first time, she recalled.
Rose let Ade know that she really had to be getting on with studying, and perhaps they could have a cuppa another time. And then she paused. She had a question of her own.
Rose drew in a steadying breath and asked, "How's my dad?"
"He's... y'know," Ade replied, with a vague shrug.
That seemed to be topic of conversation that put an end to Adrian's visit. He gave her a quick hug goodbye, offered to fix anything that needed fixing while 'your Scott' was abroad, and then he was on his way.
Rose leant against the kitchen counter and folded her arms in front of her. The last she'd heard from Sherlock was him telling her he had an interesting case that involved a group of zoo enthusiasts, or something. He hadn't phoned last night and Rose wondered if she was supposed to worry if she didn't hear from him for over twenty-four hours.
While dunking her tea bag into her mug, Rose was sure she heard the low rumble of a motorbike. It sounded closer than the general traffic that passed through her quiet terrace. To the side of the house was a laneway, down which heavy traffic did not and could not travel. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she strode out of the kitchen and into the foyer. Throwing open the front door, she looked out into the darkened driveway. Light rain glistened against the street light and Rose shivered from the chill in the air. Had she imagined hearing Sherlock's bike?
The rear door to the boot room off the kitchen slammed shut, startling her.
"Rose?"
Rose heaved a sigh of relief, and excitement coursed through her. She closed and bolted the front door and made for the kitchen. Within seconds, Sherlock Holmes had brushed past her.
"Now, Rose. This is what I'm thinking."
He strode across the foyer to a small room to one side, which was supposed to be the study but was void of furniture.
"Ah, yes…"
"Sherlock?"
"Through here," he said, gesturing to the end wall. "We'll knock this one through, and—"
"Sherlock."
"—into the garage. We'll have to remove those shrubby things on the other side. But the roof!" Sherlock zipped by Rose again, and swiftly mounted the stairs. "Hopefully, the bedroom window is high enough!"
Sherlock disappeared, leaving Rose to exhale deeply. Once more she was left on the ground floor by a man and his enthusiasm for something to investigate. For the second time that evening, Rose climbed the stairs, feeling every bone in her body protesting.
"Yes! Perfect!" Sherlock gleefully exclaimed as he exited the bedroom. He drew up in front of Rose on the landing and reached for her. "No more getting rained on when you're parking the car! We're going to build a garage!"
"I don't think we'd be allowed to," Rose said, folding her arms in front of her.
"Oh, hello, Rose." He gave her a quick peck on her cheek, then sniffed. "You've had a visitor. Clearly not just anybody. He's given you a hug, so someone familiar, then. And going by the light male cologne still present on your cheek, not a prolonged embrace either. A base note quite often found in a young man's cologne. I've written a blog post on—"
"A young man?" Rose asked, arching a brow.
"Obvious. Size and style of the boots that left an impression in the mud outside that he's carelessly tracked inside. Busybody, by the looks of it. He's been everywhere. But not in the bedroom." Sherlock furrowed his brow and scanned the floor area around them. "He stopped here."
"Perhaps he took off his boots before we dove underneath the sheets together."
"Mm, no," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "You don't smell like that sexy stuff, nor have you just had a shower."
"Sexy stuff?"
"So: male, caucasian," Sherlock said, turning from Rose and heading back towards the stairs."Twenty to twenty-five. Drives a white pickup truck."
"Sherlock," Rose said, as she followed him downstairs. "You know you can just ask me. You don't have to deduce everything."
"Where's the fun in that?" he replied, glancing back at Rose, his eyes dancing as he gave her a half smile. He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to face her. Reaching for her, with his voice dropping a couple of notches, he said slowly, "Hello, Rose."
The kitchen-dining area had now been christened thanks to the purchase of a dining table while Sherlock had been absent. On the first few nights he had been back in London, he had skyped Rose in the evening. He'd remarked about the dining table after observing the position from which Rose was sitting while they were chatting. Rose confirmed that yes, Lorraine, his—their—interior decorator, had taken charge when Rose had baulked at the idea of furnishing the rest of the house.
"Yes, I told her you'd be like that," Sherlock said. "So I instructed her to go ahead and deliver something."
As they lay on the sofa in the living room, with the TV volume on low, Rose mentioned how empty the house was when he was absent and asked Sherlock how he felt about taking on a couple of lodgers. The whole second floor was available. The one room that included an ensuite bathroom could serve as the bedroom, while the other could be a sitting room. Ideally, it would suit a couple.
"Definitely not. We can't have strangers wandering about. Within these walls, I'm Sherlock Holmes again. What would be the point of visiting you if I still have to remain undercover in private?"
"But—"
"No. I've got something else in mind, which will take care of my concerns for your safety when I'm away. It'll also deal with your apparent feeling of loneliness."
"I'm not lonely. The house just feels too big for one person."
Sherlock ran a comforting hand along Rose's arm.
"I don't know what Moriarty's plans are," he said. "And I can't be sure my movements to and from Edinburgh haven't been closely monitored."
Sherlock had concocted a plan while he travelled by train from London to Newcastle that afternoon—a plan to keep Rose safe whenever he was away. He had a phone call to make, but he was sure the relevant parties would agree.
He told Rose of a married couple he had met while breaking up Moriarty's network in Europe. They were former agents for the DGSE, France's external intelligence agency. Since they had retired, they were now living in Blackpool to be closer to their daughter and grandson. They had reconnected with Sherlock when he made his own return to England.
"They can live here," he said in conclusion. "The Wilsons are in need of a steady income after receiving only a paltry pension from their employer. They're professionals, Rose, with a particular skillset. And they're perfectly trustworthy and will be able to maintain my cover story for us." Before Rose could offer any comments, Sherlock added, "They can help you with the baby in my absence. They're grandparents, after all. And Bob loves gardening, so he can sort out that mess for you."
By Rose's furrowed brow, Sherlock could tell she was thinking about it. At least she hadn't dismissed his idea outright. Why wouldn't she agree? If she was willing to allow complete strangers to live here, then why wouldn't she accept a married couple who could double as spies or anti-terrorist agents if need be?
Plus they were fluent in all of the Romance languages. Surely that had to count for something. They knew him as Sherlock Holmes, and would be completely sympathetic for his need to assume a secret identity when living in Edinburgh. He could be comfortable in his own house and they would give Sherlock and Rose the privacy they needed while also providing security for Rose.
"They sound perfect," Rose remarked after a fashion. Her words took Sherlock by surprise.
"Good," he said. "I'll give them a call."
Sherlock travelled between Edinburgh and London two more times over the course of a fortnight. He tended to join Rose in time for the weekends and leave again for London in the early hours of a Monday morning. This pattern seemed to suit them both. Rose was mostly free on the weekends, apart from having to study, and she still maintained a busy schedule during the week. Sherlock didn't hold back on his disapproval for her late nights counselling two nights per week. But Rose insisted it was important for her career prospects. He didn't mind her continuing to offer tutoring sessions over one evening for the two Psychology undergraduates, though.
He'd contacted Bob and Justine Wilson in Blackpool, who were only too pleased at such a generous offer: a good wage, lovely accommodation and a low level risk. And they were free to commute back to Blackpool whenever Sherlock was in Edinburgh. But they wouldn't be available for another week, they'd informed him, after their grandson had his first birthday. They didn't want to miss out on that special occasion.
So Sherlock returned to London for one last time leaving Rose on her own. He still longed for her to join him in London some day. Maybe after the baby was born. She may see things differently.
On a particularly slow Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock found himself in John's old room upstairs. It still contained the bed, which Mrs Hudson kept protected under a plastic sheet, and a couple of old boxes that stored belongings John had forgotten about. Sherlock idly rummaged through them, while glancing about and imagining the best location for a cot. Perhaps he should fit it out as a nursery anyway. He could show Rose a picture and she might change her mind.
Sherlock brought one of the boxes downstairs just as the Watson family arrived, both parents looking the worse for wear.
"Ah, good," Sherlock said. "You can sort through this stuff of yours."
John scoffed and continued on into the living room, unbuckling Rosie from the baby carrier as he did so.
"Ooh," commented Mary. "What's in there? Love letters to John's girlfriends?"
While John tutted, Sherlock replied, "Don't be ridiculous, Mary. All of John's love letters to his girlfriends were in the form of emails. One or two cringeworthy poems as well, if I recall correctly."
He set the box onto the table, took his God-daughter from her father, then disappeared back upstairs with her, leaving Mary to rummage through the box he'd set on the living room table.
"Tell me what you think about this," Sherlock said to Rosie in a low voice as they entered the tiny bedroom. "Suitable for a baby's room? I value your opinion. You're the expert on these things after all."
Instead of taking in the room, Rosie grasped the edge of Sherlock's dressing gown, feeling the texture between her fingers. Sherlock looked about them, getting a feel for the ambient temperature of the room. Was it too stuffy in here? Dusty? Large enough for extra furniture? He thought he might get a better idea if the room was empty. A blank canvas.
Sherlock opened the wardrobe door, looking for any other items he could return to John. Leaning up in the corner, was John's old walking stick. The sight of it warmed Sherlock's heart. Sentiment, he thought with a tiny smile, casting his mind back to his and John's first case together.
"Now this," he said, reaching for the walking stick and holding it up to show Rosie, "will mean something to your dad."
Rosie batted the walking stick a couple of times, before Sherlock turned and left the room with Rosie in one arm, and the walking stick firmly in his grasp.
Both Mary and John were bent over John's box of possessions when Sherlock and Rosie crossed the threshold into the living room. When John turned, Sherlock lightly threw the walking stick toward him, which John easily caught.
"Bloody hell," John said, examining the stick in his hands.
"What's that?" Mary asked.
"I told you. Remember? It's what I used when I came back to London. I had a—"
"Psychosomatic limp," Sherlock said, simultaneously. Then he added, "So… you can either get rid of it, or keep it as a gentle reminder never to question my deductions again."
"Huh," John said. "As if I need a gentle reminder. Isn't that something you hammer into me every time we're on a case?"
"Aw," Mary added, reaching out and rubbing Sherlock's arm affectionately. She turned to John and said, "You should definitely keep it. It's a symbol of your friendship. Wasn't that the first time you realised you had to have faith in Sherlock's deductions and he told Mrs H you'd take the room? It's your version of a friendship ring."
John scoffed lightly, while Sherlock gave a tiny cough.
"I think… Rosie needs her nappy changed," the detective-genius deduced. He grabbed the infant's nappy bag from the floor beside the door and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Behind him, he heard Mary laugh, and John say, "I think you've embarrassed him. I've never seen him so keen to change Rosie's nappy before."
"I can still hear you!" Sherlock called back.
Rose realised the reason for Sherlock's text once she pulled up outside their house. He'd instructed her to park in the street. It looked like he was getting automatic gates installed today.
Sherlock and Bob Wilson had been busy, starting the day early, scouting for suitable locations around the outside of the house to install hidden security cameras and motion sensors. Rose was thankful Sherlock had arrived in Edinburgh well before the weekend, but his determination to get everything sorted before he left for London again was getting on her nerves. She normally had Friday mornings off, and previously, she had to clean Olivia's house. And that was another sore point—Sherlock paying Olivia what he deemed was the rent Rose owed, rather than have her clean there again.
But this Friday morning, Sherlock had shot out of bed with a multitude of things to do, rather than stay snuggling with Rose. She wasn't impressed.
So Rose had started the day slowly, declining an invitation with Justine to browse the shops along Morningside Road. Instead, she drew herself a bath, had a long soak, dressed for uni, and ate toast while reading a text book to the sound of hammering and drilling outside. She attended her lecture, then had lunch with Lisa, the first year psychology student she was tutoring. They occasionally caught up during a uni day.
When Rose returned from lunch, parking the car in the street, she found Sherlock and Bob around the back of the house, testing the equipment they had installed.
"…wait til after dark," Sherlock had just finished saying. "Oh, hello, Rose."
"Afternoon, Ms Sulford," Bob said with a nod of his head. His distinctly Northern accent continued to astound Rose. She'd said to Sherlock earlier, that she thought Bob and Justine were French.
"They are," he replied.
"Then why do they sound like they come from the North?" Rose asked.
"Awesome, isn't it?"
The Wilsons were a quiet and devoted couple. Rose guessed they had to be, with the secrets they kept. Bob jogged each morning, while Justine did yoga before the sun even rose. In the evenings, they went for a walk around Morningside and had invited Rose along. She appreciated the gesture, having missed her regular walks with Tonya Small and her puppies around Bayswater.
Rose went inside to find Justine lifting a tray of scones out of the oven.
"Oh. Justine. This won't do," Rose said, with a tiny smile and making a point of patting her rounded belly.
"Don't mind me, love," Justine replied. "It's the novelty of having other people to bake for." And then she lowered her voice and whispered conspiratorially in an exquisite French accent, "Robert, is getting a bit round, no? Per'aps 'e needs to jog more."
Rose chuckled and crossed the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock and Bob joined them shortly afterwards. The Consulting Detective's cheeks were flushed from working outside, but his eyes were bright and enthusiastic. Bob was telling Sherlock about spy cameras and tracking devices fitted into teddy bears. Rose didn't like to think what had prompted that topic of conversation.
Sherlock began updating her on the locations of all of the cameras and she only realised a few minutes later that Bob and Justine had discreetly taken their tea and scones upstairs, leaving her and Sherlock alone. They appeared to be able to do that without exchanging a word or giving an obvious signal.
"We'll test the motion sensors tonight," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair and popping the last morsel of scone topped with jam and clotted cream into his mouth. When Rose didn't reply, except to give him a wan smile before taking another sip of her tea, he swallowed and added, "How was your lunch then? With Lisa the psychology student?"
Rose was impressed Sherlock had remembered her name. Now if only he knew which of Rose's students she was: the mature-aged single mum, or the eighteen-year-old, fresh out of highschool.
"Lunch was lovely. Lisa's fine. She's going back to Liverpool this weekend. This will be her first unsupervised visit with her son. She's understandably nervous. He grows so fast, she said."
It didn't surprise Rose that Sherlock's attention drifted back towards his phone.
"Sherlock."
"Mm?"
"We were talking about holidays," Rose began, fidgeting with the handle on her tea cup. "And our plans for the trimester break, not that it's a very long one."
"That's good," Sherlock commented distractedly.
"And I was thinking… how about you and I take that weekend to go to France? We never did get to go to Paris."
"Oh. Why's that?" he said, as he busily tapped away on his phone.
"Why what? Why go to Paris now, or why didn't we go to Paris then?"
Sherlock said nothing and continued typing. Rose assumed his last tap to his screen was to press the Send button on whatever message he had been composing. Sherlock Holmes, she thought. Saving the world and taking tea and scones simultaneously. No wonder he wasn't listening to her properly.
"Sorry, what?" he asked, placing his phone down onto the table. "I wasn't really listening to you."
"I know," Rose said. "I'm talking about you and I going to Paris before the baby arrives."
A crease appeared in Sherlock's brow.
"Why?" he asked, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a sip.
"Don't you remember us discussing going on a holiday together?" A mild panic rose in her throat. It was during a rather romantic bathtime interlude last year, the calm before the storm she realised now, where she and Sherlock had been discussing going away together. Did he delete all memories of such happy times? "You asked me where I'd like to—"
"Sounds vaguely familiar."
"Yes, well…" Rose began, still feeling slightly disconcerted. "We were supposed to go before I started uni last year."
"So why didn't we?"
"Because you got shot."
Sherlock huffed a small laugh and said, "Yes. That was quite inconsiderate of me."
"So… how about it?"
"Sounds fine, Rose."
Sherlock appeared to take in Rose's furrowed brow, for he didn't break eye contact. He reached for her hand, his expression softening.
"I will take you to Paris this time. I promise."
"No getting shot at?"
"I'll try to avoid it."
"The weekend beginning the 8th of May. That's a Friday."
The trill of Sherlock's phone drew his attention once more.
"Sounds good," he said, as he picked up the phone.
Rose stood and retrieved both her and Sherlock's cups. Heading over to the sink, she asked, somewhat facetiously, "Shall I send you a calendar invitation so you don't forget?"
"Mm."
Rose sighed. He wasn't listening to her again. She turned on the tap and began rinsing the cups.
"Do you even use a calendar?" she shot back.
Sherlock slowly rose from his chair, his eyes fixed firmly on his phone before he rapidly began to type. He made his way over to Rose. She had turned around and leant her back against the sink, patiently waiting for him to grace her with his presence again.
"Sorry, what?" he asked, pulling up in front of her and giving her a sheepish smile. Thankfully, he placed the phone on the countertop beside her.
Rose gently tugged on Sherlock's waistband, drawing him closer to gain his full attention.
"Shall I send you a calendar invitation to remind you to take me to Paris on the 8th of May?"
"No need. I'll remember," he said, his eyes glistening.
"You sure?"
Sherlock banded his arms around Rose and replied, "I remember what's important to me."
His phone reminded him otherwise, but he kept a loose arm around Rose as he reached for it.
"Lestrade's determined to get my attention," he murmured.
Rose tried to exhale discreetly.
"What's 'belter' mean?" Sherlock asked her, his eyes still on the phone as he swiped the screen. "I assume he doesn't mean a serial killer who strangles his victims using leather belts." His gaze returned to Rose and he added, with a smile, "The bruising around the neck is fairly distinctive and hardly mysterious."
The tension Rose had been feeling began to abate when she realised just who stood in front of her. This is what gave Sherlock the energy—a zest for life—that she loved about him. A challenging case. A hint of a puzzle. A smile grew on her face as she looked up at him.
"I think it means he's got a case you'll find challenging."
"Oh. Good."
Sherlock discarded his phone once more, and gave Rose a closed-mouth grin. He seemed to be waiting for something.
"Go, Sherlock."
"What?"
"Just go," she said, returning his smile. "Back to London." She smoothed the flat of her palm on his chest.
"But I just got here."
"And you'll be back soon enough. Just go. Solve the case. Have some fun while you can."
Sherlock took a second to consider Rose's suggestion.
"Just so you know," he said, bowing his head towards her and speaking in a low register, "I also have fun here."
"I know."
"And babies are fun, too."
Rose chuckled lightly and felt warmed by Sherlock's embrace. She couldn't help think she had been so wrong about him for so long.
"That's good to know," she whispered. Sherlock narrowed the gap between them, but before his lips could touch hers, panic rippled through Rose and she added, "Don't forget to come back."
Sherlock regarded her for a moment. But Rose couldn't help it. Tears welled in her eyes and a golf ball-sized lump grew in her throat.
"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening as he drew back.
"It's nothing," Rose said. She forced a smile to her face and wiped at one eye. "I'm being stupid. It's just hormones."
Sherlock rumbled out a laugh, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. Rose's mind went into overdrive, as if she now had a million things to organise.
She said, "I've got my eighteen week scan on Wednesday, but—"
"I know."
"—don't worry if you miss it."
"I won't miss it."
Rose sniffed back tears once more.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Sherlock asked.
Rose nodded, but her eyes pooled once again. She felt like an idiot. She also felt all over the place. Bloody hormones. Her heart yearned for him. She missed him already and he hadn't even left yet. A sob escaped her, followed by a laugh. Why couldn't she get control of her emotions?
Sherlock chuckled and drew her to him. He placed one hand on the side of her belly and gave it a gentle rub.
"What are you doing to your mother?" he asked in a low voice.
A tiny laugh escaped Rose, and she rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder when he drew her in tightly. She couldn't wait to see Sherlock with their baby. She could already tell what kind of father he'd be. Her heart ached at the thought of it.
"I'll be back before you know it," he reassured her.
"No. Take your time. I can't study with all this hammering and drilling going on."
Sherlock continued hugging her in silence, gently rubbing her back.
Eventually, they drew apart, and he said, "I feel like another cup of tea. How about you?"
A/N:
This is the point at which you can now go and watch the Welsborough case scenes (after the scene where Rosie throws the rattle, starting with flirty John on the bus!). I'll wait here for you…
DW fans: did you spot the Easter egg? The dialogue attribution was also apt, I thought :D
