A/N:
For those who are (quietly) playing along, the ACD Easter egg in the previous chapter was the line, "My practice seems to have degenerated into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils," which comes from The Adventure of the Copper Beeches—one of my favourites!
Chapter 85 — Sherlock Holmes Is Nothing Like Him
"Nope. Nothing," Sherlock said.
Rose rolled away from him with a sigh.
"Every time you… oh! There she goes again."
Sherlock chuckled his low rumble of a laugh and lay back so he could turn to face Rose. Creases had appeared in her brow as she placed her flat palm on the side of her belly and concentrated. She had asked him if he could feel the baby kick when she pressed herself up against his back. He could not.
"I'm sure the kicks will become more pronounced as your pregnancy progresses," Sherlock said reassuringly. He reached out and gave Rose's tummy a rub as well. "And I didn't say you were imagining things." Rose had told him the faint flutters and bubbly sensations would sometimes precede a little internal tap or push. He didn't doubt it.
Rose tutted and Sherlock took that as his cue to leave.
"Chamomile, was it?" he asked, pulling on his pyjama bottoms as he sat on the edge of the bed.
Rose hummed in agreement and was already absorbed in something on her iPad—her pregnancy progress app, he assumed.
Sherlock donned his pyjama shirt and pulled on a dressing gown. Not bothering to tie the sash on his gown, he padded downstairs to put the kettle on. Bob and Justine would probably be arriving any minute now, and it was for that reason Sherlock and Rose had moved their night-time snuggling on the sofa to their bed upstairs.
At least they'd had the run of the place for the extended weekend they had given themselves, apart from Rose having to attend her seminars and lectures on Thursday and Friday. When an amorous Sherlock attempted to give Rose a proper greeting in the privacy of their entranceway after returning from the clinic on Wednesday, Rose had playfully pushed against his chest and warned him they had lodgers now.
Sherlock happily informed her that he had encouraged Bob and Justine to take the hire car, and give themselves an extra long stay in Blackpool. But they were due back tonight so Sherlock could leave in the early hours of Monday morning. He'd drive the hire car back to the airport and catch an early flight to London. The early hours of the morning were conducive to transforming a security officer from the diplomatic services back into the World's Only Consulting Detective.
As Sherlock leant against the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil, he reflected on the weekend he'd just experienced. Again, he was a little saddened to have to leave Rose. The case once more necessitated this. Scotland Yard's finest D.I. hadn't made any progress on the origins of the three Thatcher busts that had been destroyed, nor had he made any connection between the households to whom they belonged. Lestrade needed to be prompted—or prodded—by Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, while Scott Williams would again be relegated to undertake a boring security detail at some diplomatic black tie event in South Korea.
Sherlock had spied Mr Scott Williams and his ordinariness one afternoon. At first, the sight of him threw Sherlock—scared him a little, even.
Sherlock had taken to "strolling" with Rose. She'd first mentioned it on Thursday night, telling Sherlock that she walked regularly with Bob and Justine and it was so nice to get out and about in the fresh air and take in the sights and sounds of their neighbourhood.
Sherlock knew the Wilsons weren't indulging in a "stroll" in the normal sense. The former intelligence agents were scouting the area, familiarising themselves with the neighbours and their comings and goings: which families walked dogs or which individuals jogged frequently, which parents made the school runs, what the regular delivery lorries looked like and on what schedule they operated. And they had invited Rose along because they knew she would be safer in their company than alone at home.
So, Sherlock acquiesced, partly to take up the responsibility on behalf of their lodgers and partly because his pregnant girlfriend needed to get out and about in the fresh air. But Sherlock Holmes didn't "stroll"—walk with purpose, perhaps; trudge behind a bloodhound, most definitely; or sprint in hot pursuit of a suspect, very welcome.
Early Saturday afternoon, Sherlock and Rose were walking—strolling—along the lane that would eventually lead them to the high street. Canaan Lane ran alongside a primary school, which was buzzing with the aftermath of a weekend event. Cars were choking the school driveway as they carefully negotiated out into the lane, and the kerb-sides strained with parents and small children spilling out into the street.
One mother suddenly grasped her toddler's hand, and said, "Careful, love."
Sherlock didn't fail to notice Rose's curious gaze, and the almost imperceptible slowing of her pace. Her eyes had taken on a dreamlike quality as she took in the various pairings and groupings of young children and their guardians. He saw her sigh before her eyes met his. He gave her a tiny smile in acknowledgement—acknowledging what, exactly?—and felt her hand brush his. Before he knew what he was doing, he had linked his fingers into hers.
As they cleared the school spillage, the carnage and debris dotting the road in larger and larger intervals, Rose remarked, "This is a lovely neighbourhood for raising children."
Her words held all kinds of connotations for Sherlock. Children. Plural. Raising them. Families and schooling and permanence and cars with child seats and holding hands. Supervising the young and the uneducated in the rudiments of crossing the road. Here. Edinburgh. Commitment. Laying down roots.
Sherlock had hummed agreeably but had blinked uncomfortably. And then his chest heaved and he gulped in air. His heart beat a steady rhythm and his cerebral cortex, now with well-worn expertise, flooded his system with chemicals. This was the kind of light-headedness he'd experienced when he saw their baby on the ultrasound monitor for the first time. It knocked the breath out of him. Future planning had never entered his core being before. Hope for some kind of exciting event had been driven out of his mind when he was quite young. To hope for something was to ultimately find yourself disappointed. Devastated, even. Traumatised, perhaps.
But this. This life was entirely plausible and available to him should he continue down this path. And of course he would.
He said something to Rose, something about fitting a babyseat on the back of a motorbike and she had laughed. Her eyes sparkled and she leant into him, linking her arm through his for a bit until they resumed holding hands as they had done before.
As they strolled along Morningside Road, browsing through shop windows (and that was another curious add-on to the whole "strolling" thing), Sherlock spotted him. Scott Williams. The man was in his element, wearing dark shades, a navy motorcycle jacket—Belstaff, naturally—and jeans. He strode hand in hand with his pregnant girlfriend and grinned at something she'd said. Not a care in the world. He carried a plastic shopping bag containing a number of purchases his girlfriend had made from the Waitrose on the corner, and he was a little unshaven from deciding to stop the obsessive grooming that distinguished him from a suit-wearing Consulting Detective from London, for example. Sherlock saw his reflection in a shop window for just a second, but the image had stunned him.
"Is it too early for chips?" Rose had asked him, eyeing the kebab shop a little further down the road. "I dragged you all the way here," she continued with a chuckle, "so I may as well reward you for your efforts."
It was in that moment that Sherlock realised just how lucky Mr Williams was. His girlfriend loved and respected him. Adored him, too, from the looks she was giving him. He felt invincible and entirely comfortable in this skin he had acquired. But Sherlock Holmes, not Scott Williams, could have it all.
The front door clicked shut, and Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie. He turned and filled the two mugs with hot water.
"I'm in here," he said, as two pairs of light footsteps tried to creep across the entranceway towards the stairs.
"Evening," Bob said, as he and Justine entered the kitchen.
"All right, love?" Justine added.
"So how was it then?" Sherlock asked, glancing briefly behind him. "Your weekend in Blackpool?"
"Oh, lovely to see the lad again," Justine replied, crossing to the other side of the kitchen while Bob sank into a dining chair. She retrieved the milk from the fridge and brought it over to Sherlock as Bob described his delight in watching their grandson toddle about. They didn't need to ask Sherlock how the scan went, because Justine had urged him on Wednesday to text her how it went that very afternoon. And he hadn't forgotten.
"But you don't want to natter to us all night," Justine said as Sherlock added milk to their tea. "Up you go." She gave his arm a light squeeze.
Sherlock attempted to protest, offering them both a cuppa as well, but Justine waved him away. He bid them a goodnight and took his and Rose's beverages upstairs.
She was still reading, and looked up and smiled when Sherlock entered.
"Was that Bob and Justine?" she asked.
Sherlock hummed in the affirmative and rounded the bed, placing Rose's tea down onto her bedside table.
"I should go say hello," she said, casting her iPad aside.
"No, Justine shooed me away. She knows we don't have much time left together. I daresay you'll see her in the morning."
Rose silently grabbed back her iPad. Sherlock knew what that silence meant; she was in a thoughtful reticence after being reminded that he was leaving in the early hours. To cheer her up, he started telling her about the case of the vandalised Thatcher busts.
To Rose's credit, she listened attentively, quietly sipping her tea.
"Three busts," Sherlock said in conclusion. "All identical, all located in the Greater London area. The question is: are there any more? I'm waiting on Lestrade to trace their origins."
"Sounds intriguing," Rose said, a pleasant smile on her face. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Quite a puzzle for you. I'm glad." Her eyes twinkled a little, and Sherlock was relieved her delight was genuine.
"I'll… keep you posted then."
He gifted her with a broad smile, then reached for his phone. Rose returned her attention to her own screen.
"And what are your plans for the coming week?" Sherlock asked conversationally, as he tapped a rude message to the ineffective D.I.
He heard Rose's almost imperceptible sigh, which always signalled to him that she had already given him this information during a previous conversation.
"Oh, that's right," he said, trying not to react in any way as the details in question came to the forefront of his mind. He was getting good at this. "Your stint in prison. Sounds like fun."
Thankfully, Rose chuckled.
It didn't sound like fun, and Sherlock couldn't refrain from voicing his concerns about his attractive and pregnant girlfriend—that is, vulnerable girlfriend—on a little uni field trip that would have her consorting with the inmates of Saughton Prison.
"Not consorting," Rose said, with a laugh. "Working alongside the Crime Reduction Initiative and helping a handful of drug-affected prisoners deal with the effects of their substance misuse while they're incarcerated. This'll help them when they're released. My volunteer work to-date will come in handy."
"Misuse. Now that's the key word here. You see, the problem with the youth of today—write this down in your notes." He waved a hand at Rose's iPad. "You have to know how to correctly use Class A drugs."
"Yes, there'll be no more of that, thank you, Sherlock Holmes."
"I should write a blog post about it," he said, with a mischievous grin. "Or perhaps a series of tweets. Hashtag Cocaine-and-Crime-Solving."
"You can't enlighten your Twitter followers on how to administer Class A drugs."
"Why restrict it to Class A? I could get anecdotal evidence from you about Class B drugs. Speaking of which, how are you coping with your own abstinence?"
Rose arched an eyebrow at him.
"Very well, thank you. Justine's taught me some relaxation techniques. Yoga… if you must know. Perhaps we could try it together when you get back?"
Sherlock's stomach roiled in horror. Strolling. Hand holding. And now yoga. Whatever was becoming of him? He let Rose know his distaste via the deep creases in his brow.
"Do you actually want me to return?" he said.
A tiny laugh escaped Rose once more, and she leant into him and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
"We're going to be responsible parents soon," she said. "No more case-related drug-taking… or any drug-taking for that matter."
Sherlock had an affirmative 'mm' at the ready. He hadn't even thought of his substance use since reconciling with Rose. He was operating on a natural high these days.
"So, what does everybody think?" Rose asked after a period of silence that had Sherlock staring blankly into space.
"Sorry, what?" he responded, blinking a couple of times to bring his mind back into focus.
"About our news. What do they think, back in London?"
"Who?"
"Your friends… and… family."
Sherlock's pause was rather telling, prompting Rose to add, "You haven't told anyone, have you?"
"I…"
He didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't because he considered their news unexciting or trivial. He understood there'd be a day when anybody he considered worthy would know he had both a girlfriend and a baby. But there existed a cavernous divide between today and that day. How to breach it?
"I haven't found the right moment," he hastily added into the ensuing uncomfortable silence.
Uncomfortable for him, that is.
Thankfully, a reassuring smile grew on Rose's face, and she reached for his hand.
"It's difficult isn't it?" she asked, affectionately caressing the back of his hand with her thumb. After Sherlock returned her smile half-heartedly, she added, "I mean, look at my family. My news wasn't exactly greeted with baby showers and cute announcements on Facebook."
"Baby showers?"
"Google it."
Sherlock was surprised Rose remained in good spirits with her off-hand remark on how her family treated her upon confirming her pregnancy to them.
"I'm sure you'll find a way to tell them," Rose said, giving his hand a final pat before looking back at her screen.
Their evening eventually wound down into dimming lights and snuggles under warm blankets. They both fell asleep, limbs entwining, with Rose's head nestled into the crook of Sherlock's neck, her light, steady breathing warming his skin.
Before he completely roused himself in the early hours, he felt Rose stirring first. It was as if her own internal alarm clock had woken her at precisely the right moment before Sherlock had to rise and leave while the sun filtered weakly through the morning mist.
Her wandering hand skimmed his chest as she kissed the underside of his jaw. Sherlock hummed agreeably, which encouraged Rose to nibble the vulnerable skin of his neck while one hand continued to trail over his taut abdomen. He welcomed each new sensation, his body poised for more. As her hand ran lower, his response was almost instantaneous. His penis thanked him for his apathy as Sherlock luxuriated in Rose's efforts. It was the least he could do. But as Rose increased pressure, Sherlock remembered he wasn't usually that selfish. He indulged himself in the feel of her expert touch just a few seconds longer before he moved to respond in kind.
Sherlock's mouth brushed over Rose's, and with an act that required a great deal of strength and restraint, he gave her a long, stirring kiss. Stirring for whom? Certainly not him; he was well and truly stirred by now. But he drew out a quiet moan of satisfaction from Rose as he slid a hand between them and set to work.
There now. We're even.
Rose sensuously slid herself over Sherlock, before she straddled him and took him into her. He gasped at her forthrightness. Clearly, she hadn't received the memo. Well, two can play at that game.
But Sherlock forgot for a moment that he was dealing with an expert. Even in the morning half-light, he could see she had that determined look in her eye. Who was he to refuse such a demand? The pressure between them was glorious. He managed to keep pace with Rose, but she was ruthless. Sherlock was sure he'd told her 'no' at some point… or perhaps it had been yes. A reluctant yes, if so. No matter. She should feel thoroughly chastised for ignoring hm, in any case.
She elicited primal urges in him that he did his best to quell. But who could argue wth a pregnant woman? Rose had taken matters into her own hands. Sherlock's body ached, but it was a sweet ache. And then the sweetness became an urgent longing he had to fulfil.
"Christ, no," he rasped.
Rose chuckled.
Chuckled!
She was evil, but not the pure, unadulterated kind.
As the world erupted around him, his mind blanking, Sherlock had never felt more deliciously used.
"Rose," he gasped, wondering how to begin his apology. He realised too late that, for him, the train had well and truly left the station, even arriving at his final destination, while he had left Rose stranded at the platform. Her fault, really. But why had she woken him up in this way? His chest heaved as he forced out the rest of his words. "What… what was that?"
"That's for leaving me," she replied in a hoarse whisper.
Sherlock gave himself a moment to consider a suitable response. He was being punished for going back to London? But the punishment didn't seem to fit the crime.
"And... what would I get if I didn't leave you?" he ventured.
"You'd get that twice a day. Something to think about, isn't it?"
Another light laugh escaped Rose, and she climbed from him, seeming to delight in the effect this comment had on him. So she had pleasured him to remind him what he was missing out on. Clever. But who had she done this to, Sherlock wondered. Scott Williams or Sherlock Holmes?
"I need a shower," she said, disappearing into the ensuite bathroom. "I've got an early start."
An early start. Sherlock rolled his eyes. An early start at HMP Edinburgh, cavorting with the inmates. And then a moment of panic struck him. He'd left her all needy and she was going to a place where needs weren't met in the usual way.
But before he could scramble from the bed, Rose called out, "Are you coming in?" Sherlock could hear the water running in the shower. "To apologise?" she added. There was laughter in her voice. Dammit. She knew him so well; in this particular instance, she'd recognised his guilt in taking for himself and giving nothing back.
Of course he would offer an apology. Apologies given in this manner were sure to leave Rose not only satisfied, but buzzing for a full week to come. And then, next weekend, he would apologise again.
Rose didn't see Sherlock the following weekend, and as the second week of his absence slowly drew to a close, she began to panic that he also wouldn't be available at the end of the uni trimester for their mini-break to Paris.
"Tell me when it is again?" he asked over the phone that evening.
Rose could hear the exasperation in his tone. That stupid case that was going nowhere formed the basis of his mood. Welsborough, Hassan, Barnicot. The names swam around her own head now, she'd heard Sherlock mention them so often. Not that she cared what they stood for.
"The eighth of May. It's a Friday. But if you can only spare the weekend, I'd really like to leave early on the eighth. I won't have any lectures or seminars."
"Right."
Then he went silent and Rose knew he was calculating something. Her chest tightened and she felt ill. She hated herself for placing too much importance on this trip in her own mind. It was just a stupid weekend. It didn't have to mean anything. Paris? Why was that important? But she remembered that at the time she and Sherlock were planning it, it seemed like a pivotal moment in their relationship.
She had already told him she loved him. That confession formed the basis of their goodbye ritual. Sherlock had drunkenly confessed to loving her on John's stag night, but there was no reciprocation of sentiment on Sherlock's part on a normal day. He had some sort of block. He couldn't say the words. But what he did say, that night in the bathtub when they were discussing holidays, was that he thought they were currently living happily ever after. It had seemed funny at the time—a naïve declaration. But it had warmed her considerably; his statement told her she had every right to happiness, and that it was possible with the man she loved. This man. Sherlock Holmes. This was something she'd forgotten towards the end of last year.
But why Paris? Because their plans had been messed up once before? That was an argument against travelling to the French capital, surely. They could just as easily celebrate that pivotal moment by taking another bath together. Why not? It was just as symbolic.
In response to Sherlock's silence, Rose exhaled resignedly.
"Look, Sherlock. We don't have to go. It was only a good idea if you were available."
"What? Why are you saying that? Don't you want to go?"
"Yes, I do." Rose paused, struggling against her emotions, with practicalities winning out. "But you're working, and—"
"And I'll have it solved by then. Perhaps not this weekend, but definitely by the eighth."
"Sherlock—"
"Lestrade's an idiot. He's showing his age. All I need to do is trace the plaster busts back to an original—"
"Sherlock."
"—supplier. Lestrade said these things take time, but he doesn't have a hacker at his disposal. I do. Now all I need to do is question the supplier about past dealings, former employers, that sort of thing, and then—"
"Sherlock, stop!"
"—find out if there are any other cop… what?"
"We don't have to go so soon."
Her heart beat erratically in her chest. She just needed the world to slow down for a second. Sherlock also sounded like he was trying to speed things up—to get everything done in as short a timeframe as possible. She felt exhausted.
"But you want to go."
"No."
"Rose."
It was then that she choked and hiccuped out a sob. She was pathetic. She knew this would happen if she spoke to him. She'd managed to avoid all hormonal responses these last two weeks. Uni studies and volunteer work kept her busy and distracted, but now, after hearing his voice lowered to a sympathetic pitch, she had fallen to pieces.
"I miss you," she said in a tiny voice, her unseen tears spilling out.
"I miss you, too."
Now that was too much, she thought, her breath hitching on the way out.
"Come to London," Sherlock said, when Rose couldn't recompose herself. He said it so smoothly, it was like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"I can't. I've got… things..." To do, she thought. Things to do. Data to gather, an analysis to write, interviews to conduct. All before the end of the trimester. But she couldn't calm down long enough to tell Sherlock this.
"If not now, then in two week's time," Sherlock explained warmly. "During your break. You have a week off, don't you? We'll book you into a nice little serviced apartment. And Sherlock Holmes will be part of that service. It's something we provide visitors to London. A sort of welcome package. And there isn't an equivalent service in Paris. I checked."
Laughter bubbled up inside Rose, but it escaped as a kind of mutant sob-laugh.
"And perhaps I can sneak you over to Baker Street," Sherlock continued. "In the dead of night. We can stay in all day Sunday and play Cluedo while Mrs Hudson is hoovering."
Rose laughed. A lazy Sunday. "I like that idea," she said. And they would have their bath together, then, for old times' sake. It didn't have to be Paris.
"I'll talk to you again soon," Sherlock said, obviously satisfied he had talked Rose back from the edge.
They said their goodbyes with Rose's heart feeling just as heavy as before. But she now had something to look forward to, rather than a future disappointment to fear. And they had something to celebrate before the baby came. Their own happy ever after.
.
