Chapter 86Hanging Off My Gun Arm

Rose gasped, her heart tripping even though the intruder now lowered the gun and lifted the ski mask revealing their features in the half-light.

"Jesus Christ!" Mary Watson muttered under her breath.

Rose could've made the same exclamation herself upon identifying the masked gunman as the mother of Sherlock Holmes's god-daughter, but she was still frozen with fear.

It should've come as no surprise that the Baker Street residence was going to attract all manner of visitors during Rose's secret weekend stay in London. But she hadn't counted on meeting one in the middle of the night as she made a bid for the kitchen during her usual nightly awake time.

Rose had left Sherlock's ensuite bathroom via the door to the passageway instead of returning to his bedroom. The father-to-be lay fast asleep, snoring lightly, underneath crisp white sheets. Rose had to disentangle herself from his embrace. He must've been exhausted, she thought, or still feeling the effects of whatever poison Mary Watson had drugged him with during their meeting in one of Sherlock's bolt holes the night before.

Rose was quite sure Sherlock wouldn't stir in her absence. She hadn't flushed the toilet and had quietly washed her hands. She didn't want to wake him and have him worry that she wasn't sleeping properly in his London residence.

"My God," Mary added, her eyes dropping to Rose's abdomen. "He has been busy."

The air had taken on a surreal quality, and Rose didn't quite know how to process this situation.

"Not... very busy," she ventured in response to Mary's comment. "I'm sure it wasn't much more than five minutes on his part. Ten minutes tops."

Mary snorted out a laugh, that she quickly stifled.

"Oh, Rose," she said, her face softening. Mary took a couple of steps towards Rose as if to embrace her. "Sorry," she swiftly added when she saw Rose stiffen. She waved the gun in front of her. "It's not loaded. It's Sherlock's. I just wanted to borrow it."

Mary enveloped Rose in her arms and whispered, "Congratulations. I'm so happy for you both."

Upon being released, Rose gave Mary a tiny smile. What could she do, really, other than keep a deadly assassin on side, loaded gun or not.

"I'd love to stay and chat," Mary said, stepping towards the door, "but—"

"Rose?"

Rose's attention was immediately drawn towards Sherlock's voice, where he'd obviously called to her from the second he'd opened his bedroom door. She could hear him striding towards them through the kitchen. She turned to Mary, to check if the former assassin was going to threaten her should she open her mouth to reply to Sherlock, when she realised Mary had disappeared in that instant.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock said urgently, reaching her and lightly grasping Rose by the shoulders.

She nodded, still in shock.

"Good," Sherlock said, before he released her and flew through the doorway to the landing. He disappeared down the stairs, making a great deal more noise in his descent than Mary Watson apparently had.

Rose exhaled a shaky breath, still rooted to the spot. She felt light-headed and the room swayed a little. She drew in another steadying breath and moved toward the living room table, which she then leant on for support. She heard Sherlock thundering back upstairs.

"Gone," he said, striding across the threshold, his own chest heaving. He looked about him, his gaze examining all corners of the room.

"She took your—"

"Gun," Sherlock finished for her. "Of course. She didn't want to risk going back home for either hers or John's."

"Wonderful," Rose murmured.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "You look as white as a sheep."

Rose shook her head lightly.

"A sheet," she said vaguely.

"Sorry?"

"I think you mean 'as white as a sheet', not 'sheep'."

"Well, sheep are white aren't they? Except for the black ones."

Rose stared at Sherlock blankly, before saying, "And no, I'm not all right. I've never had a gun pointed at me before."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion and said, "Really?"

"Yes, really! It's not an everyday occurrence for most people."

"Oh. Okay." At that moment, he appeared to look at her, really look at her, and his eyes widened. "Oh!" he said, jolting into action. "Sorry, here." He gestured toward the sofa and put a soft hand to the small of Rose's back. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea… it'll help you get over the shock… of having an empty gun pointed at you." He couldn't quite disguise the amusement in his tone, which only served to upset Rose even further.

"Sherlock!" She refused to take his invitation to sit down and have tea. Turning to face him, she said, "This isn't funny!"

"A little bit funny."

"How can you say that? Why have you gone to the trouble of securing our house and having a security detail escort me everywhere, when you're quite happy to let an armed assassin stroll in here and point a gun at me?"

"Oh, relax, Rose. It was only Mary."

"Only Mary? The woman who shot you? The woman who poisoned you? The woman who's on the run and you're supposed to be tracking? That Mary?"

"Well, if you hadn't made me turn my phone onto silent for the evening…"

Rose straightened up and folded her arms in front of her, fixing Sherlock with an icy glare.

"…I'd have received Craig's message sooner. It's a wonder John…"

Sherlock trailed off, his eyes taking on a distant look.

"What?"

"John," Sherlock said, suddenly taking Rose by the arm. "Craig sent his message over ten minutes ago."

Down below, the front door slammed shut.

"Go, Rose!"

"What?"

"John!" Sherlock said in an urgent whisper.

Sherlock pushed Rose lightly in the direction of the open doors leading to the kitchen. She swiftly vacated the living area as footsteps thudded on the stairs.

You're fucking joking, Rose thought, fuming as she continued on to Sherlock's bedroom where she had to hide for the second time that weekend.

"So," she heard John Watson ask. "Is she here?"


"Been and gone," Sherlock replied, nonchalantly turning from John and running a hand through his curls.

"Did you see her? Speak to her?"

"No… she was…" He turned back to face John and waved a flippant hand in the air. "… in and out before I discovered her."

The creases in John's brow deepened.

"Did you even get Craig's messages?"

"I was asleep."

"He sent five! And rang you twice!"

"A heavy sleep. Must still be the effects of Mary's special paper."

"Why did she even come back? The tracker had her on her way to Dover, we thought."

"She must've realised she needed a gun. It's missing… my gun…" Sherlock said, gesturing toward the wooden box on the living room table that he assumed was now empty.

"Your gun?" John said, blinking in disbelief. "Since when do you own a gun?"

"Well… you moved out. I've acquired a couple over the last few months."

"Right… well, thanks for falling asleep on the job. We could've had Mary back before she'd even left the country."

"You can hardly talk. You've got lines on the side of your face that clearly match the texture of the fabric on Craig's sofa, plus Toby's hairs are prominent along one side of your shirt. Both of these clues are fairly suggestive of the fact that you were lying down on the job, too. I don't know why you didn't wait at home. Craig's monitoring Mary's movements and we did agree to let her travel for a bit to give her time to relax and lower her guard."

"Yes," said John wearily, "but if she hadn't even left England, we could've… I dunno…" He raked a hand over his face.

The weight of the situation sat heavily on Sherlock's shoulders. He encouraged his friend to go home, adding that Molly probably had to rise early for work and would need to be relieved of her babysitting duties. On a normal night—or early hours of a morning—Sherlock may have offered John a cup of tea and a chat by the fireside, but the detective suspected his secret pregnant girlfriend may need some urgent attention first.

"Turn up the bloody volume on your phone this time," John muttered as he left the flat.

Sherlock closed the living room door behind his friend, hesitated, then locked it for good measure. As he left the living room for the bedroom, he wondered why Rose had been wandering about the flat in the middle of the night. Was she having trouble sleeping? If his phone's constant vibrating hadn't made it tumble to the floor, Sherlock may never have woken up in time.

In time for what, though? Clearly Rose was in no danger.

Sherlock entered the bedroom to find Rose fully dressed and rummaging through her handbag. She looked up when he entered.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going back to Edinburgh."

"Your flight doesn't leave until six."

"So I'm going back to the apartment for the rest of my things. I can't go back to sleep now, Sherlock. I still have to get up before dawn so I can sneak out without anybody seeing. I'll feel worse if I try to sleep. And I've got too much adrenalin…"

"Just… stay. For a cup of tea. We've hardly…"

Rose's expression hardened. Sherlock knew that look. It was his fault they'd hardly spent the weekend together. That's what Rose was going to say.

But she blinked, as if to rethink her words.

"I know you were busy on a case… unforeseen circumstances."

"Yes."

Unforeseen circumstances. Like finding the AGRA memory stick in the last Thatcher bust, instead of the missing pearl.

"And it didn't work out for us this time," Rose continued.

Sherlock internally deflated. Rose wasn't happy with her visit. He could hardly blame her. The case though. It had definitely taken an interesting turn.

If he hadn't wasted time on Lestrade's wild goose chase—investigating Lucy Venucci, a former employee of Mohandes Hassan, one of the bust owners—he may have lured the culprit out into the open sooner. With the heavy police presence surrounding the three properties so far, Sherlock deduced his quarry was laying low. It was only when he advised Lestrade to issue a statement to the press that the series of burglaries and vandalisms were unrelated, that Ajay, as Sherlock now knew him, continued on his destructive path. Unfortunately, Sherlock had obtained the list of names of the other owners of the Thatcher busts from Craig the Hacker one day too late for Miss Orrie Harker.

On thinking he was going to Reading on Thursday night to finally solve the case of the black pearl of the Borgias, Sherlock had enthusiastically invited Rose to London for the weekend. He rented her a holiday apartment until he could sneak her into Baker Street. She wasn't impressed when he had shown up at the apartment halfway through Friday, sporting bruises about his torso from his fight with Ajay in Jack Sandeford's house the night before. And she was even less impressed when he had asked to borrow Bob Wilson for the afternoon, since he needed the former spy's particular skillset in fitting a nano-sized GPS tracker into the AGRA memory stick before arranging a meeting with Mary.

John's idea. Good one, though.

But Sherlock could've used Rose's expertise in negotiating with John not to say anything to Mary, until Sherlock had spoken to her about Ajay's accusation and threat. That conversation took all of Friday morning. Working with Bob and Craig to get the tracking chipset to talk to Craig's server took most of the afternoon. Sherlock was thankful Rose had friends—her old co-workers at the entertainment store—to catch up with, and he promised her he'd visit the apartment that night after his meeting with Mary. However, he hadn't counted on being poisoned. That took a little longer to get out of his system. Rose had been mildly sympathetic but quietly fuming. He knew she thought little enough of Mary as it was.

And so the only real time he'd had with Rose, was after smuggling her into 221B in the early hours of Sunday morning. They did get to spend most of Sunday together, with the exception of a few hours when John came over to rant and rave and generally freak out a little. Rose had to hide in the bedroom during that time.

"And no," Sherlock had said to Rose when he escaped into his room under the guise of retrieving his phone. "Now is not a good time to tell John our news. He's got a bit on his mind at the moment."

There were dark storm clouds brewing around Rose when Sherlock gave her that advice.

But now the weekend was over and Rose was heading back to Edinburgh.

"So, it'll work out next time," Sherlock said with an encouraging smile.

"I don't think there'll be a next time, Sherlock. I think it's much better if you continue coming to Edinburgh."

Sherlock felt a little bit insulted that he, in his natural habitat, didn't hold any appeal for Rose. She had gasped when he had turned up at the apartment on Friday. When he'd questioned her about why she seemed so stunned, she'd said, "I haven't seen Sherlock Holmes in such a long time."

He thought three weeks hadn't been that long a separation, until he realised his current appearance as Sherlock Holmes—the bespoke suit and Belstaff coat-wearing detective—as opposed to Scott Williams, was who Rose had been referring to. She basically flung herself at him, and he grimaced at the pressure she'd placed on his bruises.

But after the weekend he'd just given her, Sherlock Holmes's appearance wasn't good enough for her. She clearly preferred Mr Williams.

"And so I'm supposed to continue commuting, am I?" he asked, feeling defensive. "And keeping up the pretense in Edinburgh?"

As soon as the words left his lips, Sherlock knew they were the wrong ones. He bowed his head and sighed, but it was too late.

"Pretense?" Rose repeated.

"You know what I mean."

"No… let's just be clear. What pretense? Which part were you pretending, Sherlock? Spending time with me? Helping Bob in the garden? Walking to the shops together? Enjoying all of the above? Which one?"

"I just meant the name," he said defeatedly. "And the clothes. That's all."

He was back-peddling, and she knew it. Her eyes moistened and she sniffed. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive. He had to make it up to her.

"Stay," he said, reaching for her. "Just a bit longer. I've got a plan."

"The weekend's over."

"But you've got the whole week off, haven't you? It's the trimester break. And seeing you on the weekends is only an arbitrary stipulation we put in place to separate work from play. I'm self-employed, remember? And I've got a plan."

He had no plan, but he was confident he'd think of one eventually.

"A cup of tea," he continued. "Then I'll get Bob to pick you up shortly. I'll meet you back at the apartment later. I promise you. You'll enjoy this."

"You promise me?"

"Absolutely."

Rose finally acquiesced, but said she'd skip the tea. She was so tired she just wanted to go back to the apartment and sleep all day. Not having to fly back to Edinburgh seemed particularly appealing to her.

And now all Sherlock had to do was think of a plan.


Rose felt Sherlock's naked form curl around her. She sighed contentedly, deciding to go back to sleep. Their slow and tender love-making that morning was deeply satisfying. Rose had been careful to avoid putting pressure on Sherlock's bruises. She couldn't believe he was so casual about fighting a man who was a secret agent and former assassin. Like Mary.

Sherlock didn't seem to care that Mary had encountered an expectant Rose in his flat, even though he was adamant that John wasn't to know about Rose and the pregnancy just yet.

"Mary knows how to keep secrets," he'd told her.

She knows how to keep secrets from her husband, Rose had thought darkly.

She knew when Sherlock left the bed to shower and dress. She heard him make a couple of phone calls, but couldn't hear what they were about. But all too soon, he was kissing her fully awake.

"Goodbye, Rose," he whispered.

"I love you," she murmured sleepily.

"I love you, too."

And he was away, with promises to return later that evening with his plans for the week.

Rose couldn't sleep once he'd left. The weekend had started off quite disappointingly, and she hated to get her hopes up that Sherlock wouldn't become distracted by something case-related. Was she behaving selfishly?

Rose showered and dressed and sent a text to Bob telling him she was up and about. She asked him if he wanted to accompany her to buy something for lunch. Naturally, he obliged, and Rose felt a bit guilty in getting the super-spy to perform such menial tasks. She would've preferred Justine to accompany her to London, but they had decided she would stay in Edinburgh to look after the house. And Sherlock had insisted that Bob was to stick to Rose whenever she went out and about.

They shopped for eggs and a crusty loaf and salad ingredients and were about to head home via cab when Bob received a text.

"I have to pick something up from the airport," he told her. "So I'll drop you back at the apartment."

"Oh. Will you be back this afternoon? I was going to visit a friend in Bayswater."

"Yes. Possibly. But you won't have time."

Rose's heart sank. She'd just worked up the nerve to visit Tonya Small. Although their friendship had started to dissolve by the time Rose left for Edinburgh, she still felt some affection for the Clarence House Cannibal. Tonya had been quite wrong about Sherlock, and way out of line in trying to break them up, but in all other respects, the older woman had been quite supportive of Rose when she had needed it most.

"Or I could go there now?" she said.

Bob shook his head.

"Sorry, love. Can't allow it."

"But I used to live there. I know the area."

"Strict orders."

Disappointed, Rose sank into the back of the taxi. Once they reached the apartment, the cabbie waited while Bob escorted Rose upstairs. She felt quite silly. With the exception of her Mary Watson encounter, just how dangerous was London supposed to be for her now?

Bob bid her a goodbye and left Rose to prepare her lunch in solitude. Again, she was quite bored. Since she was beginning new units for the second trimester, she didn't even have anything to study. She watched TV for a while, then decided to have an extra long shower, then perhaps a nap afterwards. She was always so tired these days.

Two hours later, she woke with a start when her phone buzzed beside her. Bob was on his way back.

Rose stretched and yawned and regretted falling asleep during the daytime. It was always so disorienting. She answered the door when Bob knocked and was surprised to see that Justine was with him.

"What's going on?" Rose asked, arching her brow in suspicion. This had Sherlock Holmes written all over it.

Justine had brought another small suitcase with her from Edinburgh, in addition to her own.

"You'd better check it, love," she said to Rose. "I've brought you some extra things from your wardrobe. I hope they still fit."

Rose had an inkling, but she dared not say anything out loud. It wasn't until they were sitting in the departure lounge that she allowed a tiny bit of excitement to trickle in. Justine had also brought Rose's passport from home.

But Sherlock wasn't here. There was still a chance he'd be stuck in London on another damn case.

Curiously, Bob and Justine weren't surprised when Rose was informed her seat had been upgraded. While the Wilsons continued on through to the rear of the aircraft, Rose found herself ushered into business class. She was shown to the centre aisle where there were two adjacent seats. In one, sat a smartly dressed young man who seemed determined to ignore all those around him, preferring to tap away on his phone.

When the flight attendant had stopped fussing around Rose and her neighbour, she felt the man's arm press up against hers. A warmth flooded through her, but she resolutely stared straight ahead.

In a low voice, meant for her ears only, he said, "I keep my promises."

.